


The Queen's Will

by Ill_Tempered_Clavier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crone why did I even write this, F/M, crackfic from a dark timeline, extended visit to tropetown station: shag or die threesome, trope-related non-con, who knew there was so much to say about this?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:38:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ill_Tempered_Clavier/pseuds/Ill_Tempered_Clavier
Summary: Daenerys worries about the line of succession and properly cowing Jaime Lannister.





	1. The Queen's Will in the Matter

While Jaime wasn’t expecting a warm welcome in Winterfell, he wasn’t prepared for _this_. Not at all. Hadn’t he left the south to escape this sort of fuckery?

In the Great Hall that was quickly cleared of all but her small council, seeing the expressions on Jon’s, Missandei’s, Grey Worm’s, Jorah’s, Davos’s, Sam’s, Brienne’s, even Tyrion’s, Varys’s, and Sansa’s expertly guarded faces, it’s clear none of them had prepared themselves for this turn of events either. Daenerys has thrown them all for a loop and no one feels bold enough to gainsay her: not her husband, not her Hand, not her most (or least) trusted allies. 

“Ser Jaime. You killed my father. You abandoned your queen to come to me. While I am glad you realize she has no true claim to the throne, what did you expect? How else am I to trust your word?”

“Your grace, I expect you to be better than Cersei and live up to your word from our parley at the Dragon Pit in Kings Landing: to lay aside old grievances for the moment so that we might all join together and fight the true enemy to the north: the dead.” He pauses. “I _expect_ you to be better than your father.” Fear for Brienne keeps him from adding his final thought: _And what you have just proposed makes it clear you are his daughter._ From her cold, gimlet gaze, it’s clear she has heard his thoughts. Tyrion and Brienne surely have because they flinch at his words.

“You are quite free with his memory,” Daenerys remarks.

The look between them could freeze even wights, but Jaime continues in his bold, foolish bravado making Tyrion and Brienne both curse internally. “I knew him. Better than anyone here did, although had Ser Barristan survived, I’m sure could have told you a tale or two if he had the stomach.”

She nearly hisses with her sharply indrawn breath. “You will regret that.”

“If that’s what it takes to remind you of the real enemy, so long as some of us live, I will not, no matter what you do to me.”

And so lances of green eyes and purple meet, battle, and hold, no victor. Jon tries to break through.

“Your grace, he is right in one thing: the Night King still rides. We have no time for this.” She glares at him, but Jon—Aegon—is quite adept at this point of staring down hostile enemies. And after all, what will she do, kill him? 

“Then let him bend the knee and accept the terms. _You_ bent the knee.”

“Yes, your grace, but you also offered quite different terms,” he says pointedly. Jon pauses, thinking, weighing his words for quite a while. The others try not to stare at him, but each can’t help to look to him, hoping. He comes to a decision and speaks. “While I am your loyal man and husband, when we said the words, I did not expect you would ask such a thing.” Jon’s uneasy eyes hold hers, brave man that he his. He cannot lie any better than Brienne and they all know it.

Tyrion girds himself for battle and enters the fray. “Indeed, your grace: such lord’s demands have not been made or acknowledged with any sort of frequency for at least five hundred years.”

“But they _were_ made and accepted?” Daenerys spits.

Tyrion’s face goes bleak, sharing a brief moment with Jon before acknowledging defeat and nodding.

“I am here to bring Westeros back under the rightful rule of the Targaryens. Old laws and old ways will be remembered and honored. Aren’t you always telling me I need to do a better job of honoring the ways of Westeros?” Daenerys’s face is set. “Ser Jaime, as per your petition: you are welcome to join us. We need every arm against the Others. If the Lady Brienne will have you, we welcome your joining: it does help reinforce the sincerity of your words for our cause.” She pauses and all catch their breath, hoping that she will decide to change her first demand. She does not. “But as we have previously stated, if you want to join us, and join with the Lady Brienne, to prove yourself truly pledged to our cause, you will give my husband King Aegon Targaryen the right of First Night with your bride.” 

(Nobody but Daenerys ever calls him Aegon. She always does now.) 

Her gaze sharpens as she continues. “I cannot have children. A child of King Aegon’s and Lady Brienne’s would be strong indeed and the heir the Seven Kingdoms needs to unite it.” Her cold smile cuts them all. “He deserves at least one night to try: it is his right.”

They’ve all gone as pale as they can. Jaime wonders if Grey Worm would fell him should he try for her in the moment because even _he_ rather resembles his namesake at the moment…but the dragons: they still desperately need the dragons. Battles have been won, but not the war—and it _will _not happen without the dragons. King Jon can approach them, but would they obey him without her?__

__These days, his eyes have grown adept at swiftly reading a room by necessity and it shows that none of them know whether Jon could hold them alone. His eyes linger on Brienne’s, her usually instinctively expressive face gone red but otherwise blank. He desperately tries to get some sort of response from her so that he might know her mind, her will. She somehow manages to flush an even deeper shade of scarlet, dropping his eyes, and nodding slightly—then she captures his eyes again. They are as wide and blue and blameless and serious as the waters of Tarth: she does not want to doom them all to what is likely certain death should she not agree._ _

__He holds her gaze a moment longer, just the two of them amongst the insanity of the moment, the crowd of the room. He wants to tell her that they will somehow survive this together. At least this mad queen is not invoking fire. _Yet,_ the ghost of Cersei gleefully whispers in his ear._ _

__His gaze then turns to Jon who has been watching this, one former Lord Commander finding himself forcibly broken from his oath to another, one lover of a madwoman to another, one man who never wanted to rule but only to be loved to another. To think, an honorable Stark, grandson of the Mad King, understanding him best in this moment. They exchange imperceptible nods as Daenerys dismisses everyone and makes her exit. Just after the doors close behind her, he begins to choke on the laughter and instead finds himself retching against the wall._ _

__Lady Sansa wears the blank, bland face he knows she learned in Kings Landing from his sweet sister and son and even himself as she orders the serving women to wash the wall and change the rushes before she sweeps out of her ancestral hall without a backwards glance, Brienne following behind, her shoulders squared and eyes trained ahead._ _


	2. Touching Base

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brienne, Jaime, and Jon come to grips with the situation

She is actually grateful to have Lady Sansa bid her guard her door as she is closeted with Ser Davos and Lord Varys for the next few hours. She doesn’t know that she could speak to Jaime or her or any of them about the queen’s decree quite yet. She is still far too horrified. Jaime? And King Jon? If nothing else, she knows the three of them are united in dread at this.

But it’s winter and the army of the dead is marching inexorably towards them and they desperately need the queen’s dragons. While they are far more tolerant of King Jon than most, would they obey him without her grace?

If she allows herself to be selfish and think about her, about Jaime, she almost laughs. Here she has guarded her maidenhead for so long, kept herself above reproach only to have Daenerys order her defiled by the queen’s own husband in open court. And— _and_ —she realizes that on her wedding night, she, Brienne the Beauty, famously the ugliest noblewoman in Westeros, will bed not just one, but _two_ of the handsomest men in all of the land. She can’t help the giggle that bubbles up and escapes, but is vaguely horrified to hear how manic it sounds. The other guard gives her an odd look, so she takes a deep breath, shakes her head, smiles ruefully, and smoothes the expression on her face to one of boredom. 

Perhaps she will think of something. Or the king will find a way. Perhaps Tyrion will. Or Missandei. Or Lady Sansa. Or Ser Davos. Or Lady Arya or Lord Bran. Or Lord Varys. Tormund. Perhaps even Jaime himself. She can’t stop another smile, but this one is far less panicked: she realizes she has so very many people who will do their best by her. If nothing else, she knows they will at least all share their sorrow and disgust at what they are being forced into.

When her watch is over, she feels almost ready to find Jaime and determine their next steps.

\---

Brienne is on duty with Sansa for at least two more hours, so Jaime is at loose ends as his own shifts are done for the day. He paces his chamber wondering if it is too soon to approach Tyrion. Throwing caution to the wind—something he has always been good at, _stupidest Lannister indeed_ —he stalks to his brother’s solar only to be informed that the Lord Hand is closeted with the queen and not to be disturbed. He turns on his heel striding aimlessly down hallways, desperate to be on the move, to have the illusion of doing something.

He is surprised to find his feet have taken him to the godswood and that Jon Snow is there, kneeling before the heart tree, head bowed. Jaime turns to leave the king to his private devotions when Jon calls to him without looking or raising his head.

“Join me, Ser Jaime.”

So what can he do but approach? He stops at a close but respectful distance from the king and stands guard.

“I am sorry, Ser Jaime. I have tried to dissuade her grace from her decision. I believe your brother is also trying, pleading not your case, but Lady Brienne’s, trying to make her see what this would mean for her given her innocence and service…in so many senses of the word.” Jon sighs. “For all I hope he succeeds, I do not think he will prevail. Her mind is made up.”

Looking to the bright red leaves of the tree, searching the pained expression of its face, Jaime sighs. “I would do anything to spare her, your grace. Let me be punished for my sins. That would be justice. But she should not have to suffer for them.”

“I agree, but unless she changes her mind, it is now unavoidable. She seems fixated on the thought that she is barren and that there must be a Targaryen heir.” He then mutters, “What do spiteful witches know?” Jon raises his head, stands and faces Jaime meeting his eyes. “What’s worse is that she is now insisting on being present for the consummation to ensure it happens.” 

Jaime sucks in a breath, a harsh sound in the otherwise quiet winter gloaming. “Truly?”

“Truly. I have advocated that should you both wish, you be allowed to be present as well. Daenerys has conceded this.” He shakes his head, looking at the distant tree line. “She thinks it will turn the blade further, and truly, I don’t know what would be better or worse, but I wanted you both to have the choice. I don’t know what I would want in your place.”

Jaime nods, speechless, himself unsure about how he feels. 

Jon continues, “As for me, I will continue to try to dissuade her from any or all of this.” He regards Jaime again. “You know the danger of what we face, what the stakes are. I could see you grapple with them in the great hall when she announced her...will…in this matter.” They are quiet a moment before Jon moves even closer, breathing his next words so quietly that none but his direwolf might have caught them. “Were they not so high, I would challenge her, but I cannot doom Westeros to death, not even for this. But I begin to understand the choice you made so many years ago and worry I might face the same one day.”

These words from Rhaegar’s son stun him into silence and all he can do is nod his agreement and appreciation. It’s a cold comfort but winter has come. It is comfort nonetheless. Jon turns to leave, rests his hand on his shoulder, his words still a quiet breath only for Jaime’s ears. “After you have had a chance to speak with your lady, we three should discuss how to best proceed given the situation. While none of us seem to be able to stop this, perhaps we can reach some sort of accord amongst our ourselves to make this as tolerable as possible under the circumstances.”

Jaime stands in the snow while Jon leaves and for the first time in his life, kneels at a heart tree, mind blank as he contemplates its sorrowful face, feeling as those perhaps the Old Gods are actually listening.

\---

When Brienne enters the great hall for her evening meal, she looks up to the dais and sees that the king and queen have already left as most have already finished eating. It’s a bit of a relief to not have to see either of them at the moment. Her eyes search for Jaime and find him in the oddest company she can possibly imagine: he is seated at a hearthside table with Sandor Clegane, Arya Stark, Tormund Giantsbane, and Tyrion. It almost makes her giggle again but their dark looks ground her quickly enough.

When Clegane notices her, he shifts down the bench making room for Brienne to sit next to Jaime whose stump finds her leg under the table. She doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t have to: Clegane comes out and says what they’re all thinking, “I never thought I’d meet a greater cunt than a fucking Lannister,” he growls pushing a full ale tankard into her hand nearly slamming Jaime in the process. While Jaime and Tyrion nod and drink, Arya, on the other side of Clegane, nods and her face looks like murder…which could be an issue. She will have to have a quiet word with the girl. Opposite Jaime, Tyrion and Tormund both look far more sober and solemn than is their wont.

Tyrion looks up, looking back and forth between them, and draws breath as if to speak, but finds he has no words. After a moment, he simply says, “I am so very sorry. I will do my best to change her mind. I don’t know how likely a change of heart is, but…I’ll try.”

Jaime is staring down into his wine so Brienne speaks up. “Thank you, Lord Hand. We know you will do your best.”

Tyrion looks even more pained. “Please, my lady—Brienne—you are to be my goodsister—aptly titled as you are far too good for either of us—do not stand on ceremony: let me be simply Tyrion with you when we are not in court.”

Tormund raises his head as well, eyes as nearly as blue and just as earnest as her own. “Big Woman, you know I will fight for you and Jon until the end of the world, even if it means making it so you can marry this southron pillock. If I hadn’t seen that fucking dragon wight destroy the Wall from damn near right under my feet, I’d say fuck the queen and take my chances so you could escape.” His normally cheerful face is limned with sorrow and anger, his eyes dancing with ire instead of mischief. “But I can’t. It’s probably the only thing that could keep me from drawing my blade.” He tries a smile, but it’s ghastly. 

_Is this is first encounter with bitterness?”_ Brienne wonders. Tormund’s known sorrow, yes, but actual bitterness? She thinks not. It makes her heart hurt for him a bit, but he continues.

“Or offering to steal off into the night with ye and telling the rest of this lot to sod all.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, lass.”

Brienne pulls them all in with her sad smile and soulful eyes. “Thank you for your…support.”

Jaime can’t take any more commiseration so seeing that Brienne is done eating, stands and turns to her, offering his truncated arm while not looking at anyone else. “Shall we take a turn before bed?”

On any other day, this would have elicited any number of bawdy jokes or insults, both good-natured and not, but their tablemates offer only subdued good nights as they take their leave.

Once again, Jaime finds his feet taking them to the godswood, standing in front of the heart tree. He pulls her down and they sit in the patch of bare earth where the snow has not yet drifted, side-by-side, contemplating the sorrowful face crying its crimson tears. It has started snowing again and the quiet, inexorable fall of flakes muffles his softly pitched voice further.

“Brienne, how are you?”

She nearly rolls her eyes because how the hells does he _think_ she is, but she sees that he too is treading water in these dark uncharted seas in which they’ve been dropped. “I’m still coming to terms with it all, I suppose. I tell myself it’s not a fate worse than death, that it’s one night, that we’ll be together after. It’s a surer outcome than any normal battle.” She lifts her eyes to his, unspoken question she will not ask, although she’s not sure if it’s from lack of courage or too much of it to even recognize it.

“Yes, if nothing else, we’ll be together after. Husband and wife. They won’t be able to ask more of you.” He pauses. “Is it really worth it to you? I think if we broke our betrothal, the queen would release you from this…duty. I would do anything to spare you this.”

She doesn’t know whether to be offended or touched or relieved. She has no name for what she is feeling but she knows she loves this man who loves her and she would do nearly anything for them to be together. She tries for a smile, but it slips a bit. “I am not craven, ser.”

It has the desired effect because Jaime laughs, even if it is a touch caustic, and he wraps his arm around her, drawing her into his side, his lips in her hair.

“I love you, Brienne. I will always love you.”

She tucks her head under his jaw—something she isn’t usually in the position to do. “I love you and will always love you as well, Jaime. We fight best together. This is just another kind of battle.” This transforms the rictus of his vicious grin into something more gentle and genuine as he shifts to kiss her temple.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, the light snow coming down around them. Jaime shifts his cloak to cover her shoulders as well, making her smile. Then Ghost pads up to them, lying across their legs and resting his head in Brienne’s lap, stunning them both into silence.

Well, it’s certainly warmer with the direwolf here, and somehow, they are both comforted. It also provides the perfect segue into his conversation with King Jon. After hearing it all from Jaime, Brienne brushes the silent tears creeping from her eyes to smile at him while her other hand absently strokes Ghost’s head. 

“Well, I suppose it could be worse. King Jon is a good, honorable man.”

“He is his father’s son.” Ghost raises his head and considers Jaime for a moment before resettling.

“And yes, I do want you there for it if you can bear it.”

“If you must bear it, so will I.”

She smiles sadly. “After all you’ve done to defend my maidenhead, another will still take it against my will, and once again, you will have to watch and listen.” She sighs, short and sharp. “I hadn’t thought to face the marriage bed for such a long time.”

“At least it’s not the Mummers. It’ll be a king. That’s got to be worth something,” he says, thinking of Renly, but then looks away, soft grin turning sardonic. “Or maybe not: Cersei didn’t think it made a difference. But this one is a good man at least. Not a cruel, drunken sot like Robert.”

Brienne touches his cheek, turning his face to hers. “He is as helpless as we are in this. It’s strange, but it makes it less awful, that he is a good man as trapped as we are. It is more bearable.”

Ghost whines softly, and she strokes his head. Jaime finds himself running his stump along the creature’s back, quieted by the warmth and strength and softness and stillness—it occurs to him that the direwolf is not unlike his lady in some ways. Brienne catches Jaime’s eyes, smiling, as they pet the monstrous creature relaxing in their laps while the snow smothers the night’s sounds around them, the weirwood’s branches sheltering them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even my crack-smut is slow burn!


	3. A Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brienne and Jaime get a surprise.

While Tyrion is very careful to limit where and how often he and Jaime speak, he does his best to keep him apprised of things: that Tyrion _thinks_ Varys, Missendei, and Grey Worm are sympathetic, but to still not count on it because he cannot be sure and that the king and queen are still sharing chambers. Jaime feels almost guilty that he does not report the irregular but frequent stolen moments of counsel between himself, Brienne, and the king. The less Tyrion knows, the better. They all know how dangerous it would be were the queen to become paranoid.

A week after the decree, the queen spends the day with Grey Worm seeing to the Unsullied and remaining Dothraki, meeting with their commanders, tending to their wounded, which allows the three of them a chance to quietly speak under the pretense of discussing training the northern army and setting tactics, spreading maps and markers in the king’s solar. Tyrion has worked with Sansa to set the servants’ and guards’ schedules and assignments for the next three fortnights, so they are relatively secure. 

It’s perhaps the most awkward conversation any of them have ever had.

Brienne, brave woman that she is, begins. “Your grace, Jaime spoke to me of your discussion and efforts on our behalf. I thank you.”

Jon tries not to roll his eyes because she must know he is working for his own self as well, but stops when he recalls Brienne a maid. He finds his eyes meeting the Kingslayer’s and he sees they understand each other. 

“My lady, you know this is not my will, but we three have a duty to fulfill the queen’s orders as her loyal subjects.” 

They share looks of quiet, angry assent and nod.

“As we are agreed this is currently unavoidable, let us discuss terms to make it as…” Jon visibly scrambles for an adequate word and eventually settles on one. “…agreeable as possible given the circumstances. Lady, Ser, have you given this any thought?”

Brienne looks to Jaime, happy to let him speak for them. His tongue was always as sharp and swift as his sword, which is more than she can say. 

“Yes, your grace. We would prefer for me to be present throughout…the bedding. I would be a comfort to my lady.”

Jon nods his assent, looking to them both. “Of course. But Ser Jaime, please: given what we discuss here, what must happen, I would ask you both just call me Jon.”

Before he can stop himself, Jaime finds himself spitting out, “Not ‘Aegon?’ ” He then breathes and catches himself and immediately apologizes. “I am sorry, my liege. I forgot myself.”

Jon smiles sadly. “ ‘Jon.’ Not ‘my liege,’ not here and now. Not in this.”

Jaime nods and Brienne offers Jon her own sad smile as she wraps an arm around Jaime, then whispers in his ear, causing him to bring himself back to together. “In fact, Jon,” and here Jaime takes Brienne’s hand, and she flushes such a red that Jon can nearly feel the heat from her skin, “I would prepare her for you. Before the bedding. Bring her to make sure that she will not hurt more than is necessary.” At this, she buries her face in his neck, going even redder. Jaime’s smile cuts as he winds his fingers in her hair, down her neck, soothing. “I would make sure she is as comfortable as possible. And if the queen wishes to witness this? Let her. Would she deny a maid proper preparation before her first bedding?”

Jon’s throat is dry as the reality of the situation sharpens and he can only nod his agreement. “Brienne,” he croaks forcing himself to meet her eyes. “I know you are a maid and therefore don’t have any direct experience in this, but I would ask you to consider how you would like to be taken given the circumstances: whether you would have it go as quickly as possible or something more gentle but taking longer. I…I will do what I can to deliver what you would find preferable. Should you need it, I’m sure Jaime can answer any questions better than I, although I will of course oblige.” They are all quiet a moment. He takes a steadying breath and nods to each before taking his leave. “Brienne. Jaime. I’m sure you have much to discuss.”

The door shuts and by the sun, they have at least two hours before either is expected for anything else. Brienne seizes his hand and he enfolds her in his arms.

\---

The date for their wedding has been set for seven days hence.

They have taken to walking in the godswood to be alone. Ghost sometimes joins them. It is no end of amusement that this has become a place of solace for him, particularly when accompanied by a literal direwolf. Bran Stark is often there, but only supplies placid, enigmatic smiles and knowing eyes. It’s worse than if the boy accused him in full court. It almost makes him wish he _would_. 

Some days after their uncomfortable conversation with Jon, Ghost padding just ahead of their joined hands as they walk through a silencing blanket of snow, they find Jon waiting at the tree flanked by Bran, Sansa, Arya, and what must be Nymeria. (They have never seen her, but only have heard that Arya’s direwolf is even wilder than she.) It looks too formal and Jaime finds his heart in his throat. Brienne must be similarly concerned because her hand tightens on his, but Ghost turns to nudge them along contentedly.

“Brienne, Jaime,” Jon begins, his voice quiet, nearly swallowed by the falling flakes, “While you will be wed in the eyes of the Seven soon, we all know what awaits you that evening. We would offer to wed you first in the sight of the Old Gods.” 

Sansa speaks. “It will not solve all problems, but perhaps it will be a consolation.” At this, Sansa picks up a packet at her feet that proves to be a cloak of rose and azure embroidered with suns and moons. 

Arya raises her hands revealing what he thought to be a vibrant bag instead to be cloak of Lannister red.

Brienne is touched by their concern, their thoughtfulness, by their risk at this. She turns to Jaime and sees the tears standing in his eyes, full of his love for her, his gratitude for the Starks. He nods and for once, she is their voice. “Thank you, Jon.” She pauses as Jon takes her arm to face Jaime, her eyes shining. “My liege.” 

Sansa moves behind her to fasten the cloak with her house colors—as pretty as the stitching is, it’s clear it’s been constructed from scraps, but feels all the more precious for that.

Arya stalks over to Jaime, expression unnaturally calm, but for a moment, she meets his eyes. She whispers, “Hurt her and I’ll wear your face.” Cloak in her hands, he tries not to see it as a sheet of blood falling to the ground.

Bran wheels to the center of the gathering just to the left of the heart tree’s face. “Who is this woman?”

“I am Brienne of Tarth, Maid of Tarth, heir to the Evenstar.”

“Who brings this woman?”

“Jon Snow, born Aegon Targaryen, and King in the North.”

“Who comes for this woman?”

“Ser Jaime Lannister.” 

They all wait a moment for him to go on as he has a few more titles he could throw in there, but he doesn’t. Brienne realizes why and smiles, her plain face lighting with understanding and love. Sansa can’t help but let a wistful small echo her sworn sword’s. She may hate Jaime Lannister, but she cannot doubt his love for Brienne and his glad to see him approach her without bravado.

“Lady Brienne, do you take Ser Jaime Lannister to be your husband?”

“I do, my lord.”

“Kneel.” They do. First, their heads bowed, silent. But after a few moments, they find their eyes seeking the other out. They smile.

“Arise.”

Jaime moves behind her to unfasten her cloak and after a momentary thrill of panic, realizes Sansa has used a knot that will allow him to remove it one-handed. No doubt a kindness meant solely for his bride, but he is still grateful. He catches her falling cloak and passes it to Sansa who folds it neatly. He idly thinks if they survive all this, it will hold a place of honor in the great hall on Tarth, a symbol of their love and their alliance with House Stark because how could he ever begin to contemplate standing against them after this?

Arya somehow steps up neatly as a properly trained cupbearer and presents the red cloak to him. Again, as he begins to unfurl it in his hands, he sees that it has been fashioned with a clasp that can easily be closed with only one hand.

He is humbled by this kindness, and cares not who it came from as he fastens the crimson cloak around Brienne’s shoulders. He then steps before her and takes her hand in his, moves his stump to her side. They regard each other close like this for many moments before he finally moves in to kiss her. She lifts her right hand to his cheek to deepen the kiss and while everyone else is silent, Ghost raises his muzzle and sings into the night and Nymeria follows.

\--

They all scatter shortly thereafter. At the evening meal, Jon, Sansa, and Bran sit at the high table with Brienne standing guard behind her lady.

Jaime sits near the front at a side table surprised to find himself glad in the company of Arya Stark (who has somehow dodged the high table this evening), Sandor Clegane, and Tormund Giantsbane. 

“What the fuck happened to _you_ , Kingslayer? You’re grinning like a fucking cunt. I’d say you got laid, but I know better given who you trail after like some lost fucking puppy.”

“Oh, just had a good day in the training yard.” And this was true—something that could be corroborated by multiple witnesses, many of whom had no love for him. He knocked five squires and three Vale knights into the dust. What’s more, it even happened before he got married. _Married,_ he thinks, his smile deepening. 

He takes it as one of his great life’s triumphs that Arya actually grins back at him, but of course Clegane doesn’t miss this and presses the matter.

“Then why is the little wolf-bitch smiling at you instead of snarling?”

“Maybe she’s tired of wondering if I’m going to let Lady Brienne get killed because of my left hand and is glad to see it’s stronger?”

“Not bloody likely,” Sandor huffs into his tankard, fixing Arya with a hard stare that she returns wearing one of Sansa’s blank, bland smiles without batting an eyelash.


	4. A Winter's Evening

Sansa excuses herself from the table and asks Brienne to accompany her back to her rooms. When they arrive, she nods to the guards on duty to secure her door from without. 

Unsure of what’s expected of her, Brienne stands to attention, hand on Oathkeeper.

Sansa pours two goblets of Arbor red (there can’t be much of _that_ left, Brienne thinks absently) and waves Brienne over to join her in the other chair aside the fire. “Brienne, you are a maid.”

It is both a statement and a delicately posed question. She nods assent.

“I know you were with Renly’s camp and likely saw something of what happens between a man and a woman, but thinking on what my own septa prepared me for and I was forced to discover: how much do you know of what goes on in the marriage bed?”

For all that Sansa’s expression is unyielding, her tone is matter-of-fact. Brienne can only shake her head mutely.

“I had hoped your marriage bed might easier than mine, and even with this, I think it will be. Jon is kind and I think your husband actually loves you.”

Seeing Lady Catelyn’s eyes and hearing her voice at this moment nearly guts her: not that she can see and hear her lady again, but that she failed her daughter, younger than her, so much so that Sansa feels it her duty to share these lessons.

It is so painful.

Sansa continues and her question shakes her out of her reverie before she can get too lost in her own head. “Have you ever touched yourself, Brienne?”

“W…WHAT?”

“Do you know the pleasure of your body?” Sansa’s smile is cool but not cruel as Brienne turns deep rose of her house colors. The Lady of Winterfell thinks of Lady Oleanna and Lady Maergery’s lessons. After all, back then, they had even less reason to be thoughtful of her than she does of Lady Brienne. 

Silence. 

“There’s nothing wrong with it, you know. In fact, it’s important a woman knows her body before her bedding. How else can she tell her husband how to please her? Have you ever touched yourself between your legs?”

Brienne cannot speak past the hot flush that nearly chokes her, but minutely nods a yes. Sansa smiles widely and pushes the wine goblet in to her sworn sword’s hands while taking a healthy swig herself. 

It’s a testament to both Brienne’s extreme discomfort and trust because she drinks deeply.

Sansa continues, almost conspiratorially. Her manner reminds Brienne briefly of Queen Margaery. “There are ways people can come together that do not endanger the maidenhead or risk children. Has Ser Jaime ever brought you to pleasure? He’s an experienced man.” 

“W…WHAT?” she sputters again. “Of—of _course_ not! We were not married!” Brienne looks nearly like a cornered hind. In her panic, she tries not to wonder too much about what these things might be, what they might have done that would not risk her honor in name if not in truth. She takes a deep breath, another draught of wine and confides as she turns an even deeper shade of scarlet, “We…we have kissed. Since he came north and asked for my hand. Sometimes for quite a long time while he touched me. Mostly over our clothes. Because he knows…he knows something of what I’ve gone through to protect my maidenhead.” 

Her sapphire eyes meet Sansa’s hard topaz. She looks away, taking another pull of wine which she is not accustomed to and so speaks more freely to Sansa than she generally does even to herself, through this guilt that she still has her maidenhead while Sansa does not. That even though she too will have hers sold as part of a political pact, it will still be magnitudes gentler than what Sansa had to endure…although she too had an unwelcome witness.

Sansa’s tongue is also loosened and she muses, “I was given in marriage twice and knew two very different marriage beds. It is one of the reasons why I treated with Dragon Queen aside from her excellent claim to the throne: Tyrion Lannister did not just spare me the bedding ceremony, but he dispensed with the bedding altogether.” She is quiet a moment and adds, “Such a man would be a worthy brother.” She tilts her head, considering. “Although, looking back, I rather think part of it was that he was fucking my maid at the time.” Sansa takes another long swig. “Still, Tyrion was far kinder than his nephew ever was.”

Unspoken between them was, _Now you also find yourself in an awful situation dictated by your monarch._

“I must obey my queen. Jaime will be with me. And I trust King Jon. We have all dealt with far worse things than this bedding. I cannot lie: I am afraid. But I know it will be nothing like you have faced, my lady.”

Sansa nods. Brienne is right. 

Brienne will bear this. 

The things she does for love.

\---

Brienne slinks off (as much as a woman of her size and build can) to her quarters. Once Pod has removed her armor, she dismisses him and her handmaiden Ferna to sleep. It’s so strange, having a maid. Ferna shuts the door and Brienne moves to basin to wash her face and hands.

She feels him behind her and before her instincts attack, he seizes her and growls into her neck, smiling.

“Wife, this is our wedding night.”

“Jaime!”

“I know you must remain…intact…for our king and public wedding, but I would have you tonight, just the two of us.” He sees she is flustered. Of course her septas have only spoken of one way someone may have a woman. “My lady,” he bows, a flawless courtly gesture, “Let me show you.”

Drawing a deep, unsteady breath, she says, “I trust you.”

The words lance his heart like no others could in this circumstance. He takes her in his arms and kisses her, laying her down. He sees she instinctively wants to fight him as he pulls down her pants and small clothes, but then forces herself to relax and lets him.

“Oh, Brienne, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

“But…but we cannot…?”

He smiles at her sadly, but then it widens as he kisses her nose. “We cannot, not yet, but there is still so much we _can _. Let me show you tonight, while it’s just you and me.”__

__She thinks back to Sansa’s words only a short time ago. His eyes are earnest and beautiful and she nods. “Tonight, just you and me.”_ _

__\---_ _

__Brienne surfaces surprisingly slowly as the sun rises and its light fills the room, Jaime’s arms strong around her. There is no momentary confusion about where they are or who she is with or why he is here in her bed: she knew even in her dreams this past night. That she feels him awake behind her, breathing into her neck gently so as not to wake her, but tightening his embrace as he feels her stir makes it all the sweeter. She wraps her hands around his and his stump._ _

__They both know and are glad._ _

__“Good morning, wife,” he all but purrs into her neck, his chest rumbling against her back, causing her entire being to thrum with contentment. She can feel his smile pressed there._ _

__“Good morning, husband,” she beams back. “Jaime,” she breathes, his name a benediction._ _

__He pulls her to face him, his eyes shining with joy but his beautiful face solemn. “Brienne,” he says, fingers tracing her heavy jaw, thumb against her thick lips._ _

__They lie a moment quiet and content. Then he uses his right arm to pull her closer still and he leans forward to bury his nose in her short, strong neck that smells like home._ _

__“What we did last night will cause no children. But what you will have to do with Jon Snow…what I would like us to do on that wedding night after…that might.”_ _

__Brienne pulls back just far enough so she can meet his eyes._ _

__He continues, “If…if you want them, there is nothing more I would like than to have children by you. But you know what we face, better than I do.”_ _

__She is reassured by what she sees in his look, his face. “Jaime, I know we stand at the brink of war with the opening skirmishes begun. I love you and I do want children if only for Tarth’s sake and your own, but this is not the time if we can help it.”_ _

__He nods, his relief making him collapse against her, drawing her closer._ _

__“She will make you wait until you bleed after you bed the king before allowing you moon tea. I would be with you after him if you would have me and do not hurt…but after that night, we should wait until you can take moon tea.”_ _

__She smiles, her fingers brushing her lips, thinking about the evening before. “I want to be with you in all ways, Jaime, but after last night, I think we can still find ways to enjoy our marriage without too much hardship.”_ _

__He nods and leans in to kiss her. “Now how about I show you what else we can do?”_ _

__She bites her lip, blushing, and nods._ _

__\---_ _

__The day before her public wedding to Ser Jaime, Tormund pulls her aside after their usual training drills. He offers her a dipper of water, and she gulps it down, icy as it is because she’s parched after their sparring._ _

__Tormund is uncharacteristically quiet, leaning against the far wall, regarding her._ _

__“Well?” Even _she_ can’t let the silence stretch on any further._ _

__“I know you love him, that he loves you. I know you well enough now, see how you are together to know. But I also want you to know that I meant it: if it doesn’t endanger Jon or the world, say the word and I will take you away. I won’t expect anything in return.”_ _

__Brienne can’t help but feel herself softening for she also knows Tormund better now than she did all those months ago._ _

__He continues. “If there was anything I could do to spare you, I would. But I can’t. This…this is not the way of the Free Folk.” He is quiet a moment, lost in thought, weighing something._ _

__He takes her hands, then her eyes. “I have known Jon Snow a long time. There was a woman of the Free Folk he loved. Ygritte. Kissed by fire, lucky, like me. She loved him, too. She never had any complaints of him if her moans were to be believed.” He wags his entirely too expressive eyebrows at her. “One day she was telling him he knew nothing and the next, well, let’s just say she found a new turn of phrase.”_ _

__Brienne flushes nearly as red as Tormund’s hair and beard. He runs his knuckles down her face with a gentleness she doesn’t know he possesses._ _

__“I’m just trying to say that while I know he’s not the man you’ll want between your thighs right then, you could probably do worse for your first. He must know what he’s about to have a woman of the Free Folk take him more than once.” As well-meant as she knows this all is, and as fond as she’s become of Tormund, she is deeply uncomfortable._ _

__He seems to read this from her, and sighs fondly. “You will survive. All of you.” He leans in and kisses her forehead with all the delicacy of the snowflakes blanketing the ground around them._ _

__She is surprised to find it leaves her warm._ _

__\---_ _

__Later that day, Tyrion manages a discrete meeting between Brienne, Jaime, and Jon, ducking out after they are all gathered. While they have all been in each other’s company since Jon saw them married, the three of them have not been much in private._ _

___Does Ghost count?_ , Brienne wonders idly, her hand stroking along the direwolf’s back, while Jaime’s stump is in his ruff. The direwolf has sought them out at odd times, walking with them or putting his head in Brienne’s or Jaime’s laps, so Ghost’s easy presence is a comforting one for all of them in what they know is a difficult but necessary conversation._ _

__“Has the plan changed since we last spoke?” Jon asks, his face a mask. Jaime is surprised to find it hurts him to see this look on his face: it’s one he knows all too well and finds his own settling in all too familiar bland lines._ _

__“No. Unless there’s any new information?”_ _

__Jon shakes his head in the negative._ _

___We could be discussing battle plans,_ Brienne thinks, the three of them in their armor, standing around the map table._ _

__“So.” Jon picks up a marker—a starburst—and places it at Riverrun at the head of the fork. Brienne tilts her head confused because she’s no forces near there, none of them do, until Jon pointedly puts down a lion marker where the waters divide. Jaime nods. He puts a wolf down behind the starburst facing it and… _ohhhhh,_ yes, given what Jaime has been whispering to her these past days and showing her these past nights, she understands now. _ _

__They both turn to her and she reddens deeper than her natal house colors, deeper than even her husband’s, but she nods and clears the pieces from the map._ _

__Jon lays a chaste kiss on her cheek, a lord to his loyal bannerwoman, a brother to a sister, a friend to a friend. He turns to leave, considers Ser Jaime, then stops and kisses his cheek as well._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They get a little privacy this go-around because poor things won't have any the next.


	5. The Mad Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne get married again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the ~~bride~~ smut.

Despite this mad circus, Jaime can’t quite believe that he’s standing in front of the Mother’s and Father’s altars for his wedding in Winterfell of all places. For one, he never thought he would be married once let alone twice under the purview of the Starks of all people, that they would have not just allowed but ensured his marriage to Brienne in their own godswood so that they might have an untainted ceremony. 

The oaths that he made to Lady Catelyn under duress weigh less heavily on his shoulders.

That the entire realm will know and have to recognize their marriage: well, she certainly deserves better (both in quality of husband and of queen), but he is selfish enough to revel in knowing that after today, no one will be able to deny their bond. 

Had things gone a more conventional route, all he would be able to think about would be the bedding. If nothing else, the queen (once again, a queen is purposefully trying to sour his love), has succeeded in taking what ought to be a sweet, delicious thought and poisoned it, making it something that must be borne. Unwillingly, he is reminded of Cersei, of how she described her official bedding as something that must be borne. As much as he hates her, he loves her, and his heart clenches at this understanding. He thought he knew, but he did not. As he considers Brienne’s position, he realizes he still does not, not truly. Still the ghost of his sweet sister haunts them.

But then another ghost noses his hand, and he is grateful for it. _Since when did lions care for the company of wolves?_ a different ghost hisses in his ear as he takes his place between the Mother’s and Father’s altars.

 _When the lions realized their pride meant nothing,_ Jaime smirks, burying his fingers in Ghost’s fur. The direwolf’s favor does not go unnoticed or unremarked upon…even if the remarks are quite quiet. No one wants to offend the queen.

Then the sept doors open and Brienne stands in her armor standing on Jon Snow’s arm. He cannot help but smile at her, even knowing what will come following their king leading her up the aisle. The cruelest part of him—the part of him that is Cersei hisses, _Look at the little dragon king on her arm, pretty as a damsel. Imagine if Tyrion had to give her away._ He hates himself a little.

Jon takes her hand from his arm and places it in Jaime’s to join them, resting it just a fraction of a moment on top of them together, giving them a subtle, sad smile before he takes his place next to Daenerys behind the septon.

 _Don’t know why_ he’s _brooding,_ Jaime thinks spitefully to himself. _If her cunt feels half as good around a cock as it tastes and feels on my fingers, our mopey king will find this an easy duty tonight._

The ceremony goes by more quickly than Brienne could have imagined despite how long the septon drones on. She both wishes it would go on forever and be over and done with. The only things helping herself hold together are Jaime’s hand in hers and not wanting to disgrace herself in front of nearly all of Westerosi society. She wants to do her friends proud and triumph over those who would watch their humiliation.

Too soon, their cloaks exchanged, their hands bound, their first public kiss. Jaime makes it slow and strong but chaste. By now, all the north knows that they will not be alone for their bedding and Jaime is determined that they also see his steadfast love for Brienne.

There is a cheer (and a few quiet jeers, but the newlyweds are both experts in ignoring the bleating of sheep) as they make their way to the great hall for their wedding feast. Those who have attended previous weddings in Kings Landing can’t help but note it is a meager thing compared to Joffrey’s, Tommen’s, or Tyrion and Sansa’s, but even with the dark cloud of the bedding hanging over them all, it still manages to be merrier than any of these. If Queen Daenerys looks too darkly amused ( _rather like Cersei,_ Tyrion, Sansa, and Varys each think at some point in the meal) and King Jon rather drawn (Arya and Sam quietly fret), Jaime and Tyrion do their best to keep the conversation moving and the mood light. Tormund assists, his tales of wonder from beyond the Wall becoming nearly as tall as the structure itself once stood and if anyone gets too free with their mouths in mocking the bride, Sandor sends a dark look that instantly silences wagging tongues.

When the final course has been served and cleared and when wine and ale are the only things still being called for, Jaime and Brienne exchange a look.

 _It is not unlike the one we shared in the bear pit,_ she thinks. _Impossible odds then, too. But we fought them together._ Taking his hand in hers, she nods and they stand. The crowd whistles and cheers and laughs until the queen and king stand as well and all falls silent.

“Let the feasting continue to celebrate the union of Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne,” Queen Daenerys calls out. “King Aegon and I will bear witness to the consummation for the survival of the kingdom may rest in the joining of two such mighty warriors.” 

So it is that Brienne finds herself being escorted to her bridal chamber by not just her husband, but also the queen, king, and two queensguard. It almost makes her laugh. _Well, one way or another, I guess I’ll finally be wedded and bedded and with this audience, no one will be able to deny it._ She can feel the eyes of her friends and allies on her, and while she takes strength from their support, she also wishes they would not know their shame. She truly begins to understand the power Jaime’s secrets had over him. At least with all knowing what will happen here this night, there will be no threat of exposure hanging over their heads afterwards. 

It is a cold comfort.

Then they are at her chambers (which Jaime has moved into as they are much nicer than his) and the queen directs the guards to the outside of the door. One pauses for a moment, clearly concerned that the queen is entering a chamber with three of the most renowned fighters armed with Valyrian steel for a meeting that could go very wrong very quickly. Before he raises his objection, King Jon silences him with a look and the queen nods her agreement.

“The king will take their weapons inside and while we are within, we will leave the door unbarred.”

Jaime is surprised to find himself feeling bad for these guards. They’ve just been given a near impossible task under these circumstances, even with the queen’s latest amendments. It does show that she trusts Jon implicitly, and to a lesser, but still not insignificant extent, Brienne and himself. He doesn’t think she is naïve about her personal safety. That’s interesting and could be useful. _Or it could be hubris, unable to imagine that we might turn on her,_ he thinks. Also interesting if less comforting. 

But then they are all inside and Jaime shuts the door the chamber, reminding himself not to bar the door because his queen has decreed it so. He takes a moment to look around the room and sees that changes have been made to prepare it for the evening beyond moving his belongings. 

In addition to extremely generously supplied roaring fire in the hearth, the table that once stood in a corner is now fairly close to the bed and has four chairs instead of two. There is a selection of fresh fruit from the Winterfell glasshouses—a tangible sign of the Lady’s favor indeed—and old cheeses from the cellars along with at first sniff reveal themselves to be four flagons of _very_ good vintages of Dornish red and gold. Tyrion’s doing, no doubt.

The queen seats herself gracefully in one of the chairs with a clear view of the bed, spine straight, her hands clasped daintily. “Shall we begin, then?” All three look to her, trying to read her expression.

Jon sees a woman he has come to love being transmuted by the weight of leadership, the pull of her power, and the pressure of winter’s army. He hasn’t known her very long, but even in this short time, the lust for command usurps her earlier words about being a mother to her people. He wonders if he was wrong, if she is indeed barren, and if this is so, perhaps it is a blessing. 

He had longed to belong for so long, but now that he has a family and a family name, he can’t help but think if nothing else, the winter has shown him that he truly is a Stark. His brothers and sisters have proven to him that they see him as such as well. As in battle, he finds his thoughts flitting off into odd places. He finds he does not regret forgiving Theon. If Theon had only been a bit stronger and had more faith in his adopted family, he might have found his own place forged in Winterfell instead of dying on the seas trying to save his sister from his uncle. _So much done to and for family_ , he thinks, his gaze shifting to Ser Jaime, another man who has done appalling things for and with his own. 

Brienne watches the queen settle from the corner of her eye as she is facing her husband. She reflects that the queen is everything she could have dreamt of being as a girl: beautiful, graceful, small, delicate, powerful. Many men have fought for her hand and her heart. But now a woman grown on her (second) wedding night, she can’t help but realize how little these things matter once you’ve found your own ways to define beauty and grace and power—particularly once you’ve found real love. Those painful lessons started with a child’s dreams based on stories, then the clash of story and reality that she found in Renly’s camp, then the strange fellowship she and Jaime forged in the fire of great suffering that grew into the love they have now. And watching Jaime struggle with his own loves—that has also taught her a depth of compassion that she doesn’t think she would have learned otherwise. She looks to her king gazing at his queen. She knows that look: she saw Jaime wearing it often enough when looking at or speaking to Cersei and it makes her heart ache in sympathy for Jon.

She has heard the queen found and lost her own love under difficult circumstances: a premature arranged marriage, a tragic death. She wonders at what it is about the Iron Throne that seems to make people throw away the best lessons of love: Rhaegar loved Lady Lyanna but was willing to throw the realm into chaos; Robert likewise was content to let them all be destroyed in his grief; Cersei threw off Jaime despite him sacrificing his independence to be with her; for all she loved him, she knows Loras was Renly’s love but he took Maergary’s hand instead; Stannis may not have loved Lady Selyse, but he loved honor and duty and twisted it into something that would let him lie with the Red Priestess Melissandre and consign his cherished daughter to the flames.

Brienne prays that she and Jaime will not be so foolhardy in the face of Winter’s—or life’s—trials, that nothing they face will let them spend the truth of their love so cheaply.

Jaime looks to the queen and the king, calmly observing the loaded look and not even trying to hide it. If she will insinuate them in their wedding chamber, then dragons or no, he will not look away. He is surprised to find that his anger bleeds out into pity, into a dark amusement that once again he and those he loves will be the puppets for a mad ruler’s whims. Still, it’s better than watching Brienne burn to death. He prays he will never have to watch her or any of them dance to the inevitable song of flames. It occurs to him that this might be how Tyrion felt all those years watching Cersei play with him, powerless to intercede. _And now he must bear witness to it again. My poor brother._ When they all first came together, he couldn’t help but notice how Tyrion looked at his queen. He wonders if this wretched situation has at least help cure him of his lovesickness. _Handless and Noseless, maimed lions bound to serve insane dragons._

“My love, Aegon, please take Lady Brienne’s and Ser Jaime’s weapons.” Daenerys says as calmly as she if she were calling for her handmaiden or the next course in a feast.

Jon only nods and turns first to Jaime who finds it rather harder than normal to one-handedly undo his sword belt. Neither Jon nor Brienne move to assist him for which he is grateful. Jon refastens it and slings it over his shoulder, hand out for the daggers he is sure Jaime carries. Knowing that the evening will end with him naked as his name day, there’s no point in trying to deny or hide them and he hands them over calmly. While Jon keeps Widow’s Wail at his shoulder, Jaime watches Jon drop the two daggers and dirk into the chest by the bed. 

Jon then turns to Brienne. “My lady?” Brienne starts by divesting herself of her smaller blades, and again Jon puts them into the chest. Finally she has no other excuse and slowly unbuckles Oathkeeper’s belt. Holding the scabbard in both hands, she is loath to give it over to anyone except Jaime but Jon is patient and if Daenerys is less so, she does not move. Brienne looks across to Jaime. “You know, when you gave me my quest and Oathkeeper and Podrick and my armor—I don’t think anyone had ever understood who I wanted to be so well.”

“You were already her. It would have taken an idiot not to have known you would prevail.” He smiles wickedly, “Plus, I was terrified Cersei would decide you were a threat and I had to get you out of the city away from her.”

Her eyes go wide. 

Jaime moves closer. “When I sent you off, I was sure she was going to arrange for something to…happen…to you. I realized that having you under my protection was quickly having the opposite effect.”

“She asked me if I loved you. At Joffrey’s wedding. You saw her address me? That’s what it was about. She mocked me and asked me if I loved you.”

“I was worried then and even more so when you rode into the Dragonpit. I had hoped she had forgotten you.” He sighs, stroking her face. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. She can’t touch you now.”

Brienne smiles sadly, shaking her head. “No, she can. She does. She touches us both. But the difference is that we don’t have to face her memory alone.” Brienne leans over and gives Jaime a soft, firm kiss that eases something in him before breaking it and she hands Oathkeeper over to Jon with a heavy exhalation.

Jon likewise refastens the belt and slings it over his shoulder alongside Widow’s Wail. He then unbuckles his own sword belt holding Longclaw, joins it, and rests all three in the far corner of the room away from both the bed and where Daenerys sits. He removes his own two daggers and dirk, putting them in the chest along with Jaime’s and Brienne’s, locking it, and placing the key on top. Brienne can’t help but admire his choice: it shows a level of trust but neither is it completely foolhardy. These are small touches, but it is clear he has thought through it all and seeks to put them on as equal footing as possible.

Daenerys has been silent and still throughout. She still says nothing, patient, watching.

With the weapons taken care of, they are now forced into the next stage of the farce. Brienne is grateful for the clumsy, frank conversations between the three for at least they have a plan that all have agreed upon and it gives her some sort of way to move forward. It’s a battle, just of a different kind, one between themselves and the queen with weapons she has not yet mastered. (Although Jaime tells her she is a natural, Maiden bless him.) 

As all three have dressed in armor, they stand in a triangle and assist the person at their right with their plate (except for Jaime who does what he can for Brienne), which the pieces neatly pile side-by-side. Then down to their jerkins when they address their own clothing, Brienne’s and Jon’s movements are oddly synchronized as they begin to disrobe, Jaime’s providing a counter-rhythm as he works one-handed. Brienne and Jon help Jaime with his boots as he sits on the bed and he can’t help but grin internally that the bloody king is playing squire. Jon sees the wry amusement in his eyes, catches Brienne’s so she can share in the moment, and they all take a breath together. 

It helps. In one of the more embarrassing discussions Tyrion was present for, he offered his expert advice as a brothel connoisseur and not complete stranger to three people in a bed (albeit always with two women). Being such a frequent, generous, courteous, and genuinely curious patron, one lazy afternoon, he asked the two women in his bed whether such arrangements doubled or halved their work. 

“Oh, it depends, milord,” the woman on the left muses, idly ruffling his hair. “Depends on what he wants, who he picks to join.”

“Yeah,” the other woman pipes up from his other side, her arm slung above Tyrion’s head and her hand in the other woman’s hair. “Sessya and I have worked out some things together. We know some moves that gentlemen seem to enjoy—and it’s nearly always gentlemen who ask,” she smirks and her other hand tickles the hair on his chest. “We’ve become a team. While we got to please our customer, we know what the other likes and doesn’t like. Helps keep things going. Plus,” she smiles at him, “We make a bit extra.”

Sessya speaks up. “I know there are some things men like to do that Naryla here does not, but I don’t mind. And likewise. Once we got a few requests to be together, we worked out a few different things. It made it easier. When you’re with someone alone, you’re just thinking about how they’re reacting. But the more people you have in a room, the more you have to think about. Better to do some of that thinking ahead.”

It is somewhat helpful, although in this case, both men accept Brienne is the patron in this scenario, and as they are both more experienced than she, they have also had some close counsel. They did plan things out, as uncomfortable as it was, although Jaime was amused to see that the great King Jon Snow who rose from death to fight the great threat can blush as deeply as Brienne at the thought of this. It’s oddly comforting and distracts him from his own unease.

Jaime moves to stand in front of Brienne and Jon moves behind her. They had each individually thought about what Jon would do for the first bit while Jaime prepares Brienne. He could sit with Daenerys. He could sit on the bed or stand in a corner. Or he could be with them.

While on one hand, they all wish Jon wasn’t in the room at all, given what must come next and how he has also been dragged into this, and so like the battle commanders they are, they come up with a number of scenarios. Somehow, asking him to stand off in the corner or sit with the queen felt like exiling him, so they agree he joins them.

This first step is that they strip down to their tunics. Jaime will lay Brienne down and bring her at least once, twice if possible under the circumstances. Jon will join them on the bed, providing physical support to Brienne. Then, when Jaime deems her ready (being rather more experienced in judging this physical state in a woman for admitting a man than she given her virgin state) and Brienne consents, Jon will take Brienne from behind while Jaime is with her at the front.

In the dark light of day, alone when considering, or in hushed chambers discussing this, it sounded so sensible, easy even. Faced with a very red Brienne in naught but her tunic, showing off her long, pale legs Jaime swallows as he lifts his hand to her face and draws her down for long, lingering kiss. 

Brienne wraps her arms around him, pulling him closer. They drink their fill for so very long. 

Jaime breaks the kiss long enough to see Jon has buried his face in Brienne’s neck, breathing shallowly, his other hand at her hip and stroking her ever so slightly. Her eyes are dark and glassy with desire. He looks a question at her and she nods, reaching back to pull Jon even more closely against her back, burying her hand in his dark, curling hair.

Jaime’s stump glides up her side and he feels Jon press forward, left hand on her hip below his arm and the other man gasps at the contact, as Brienne nearly jumps with the surprise of feeling that Jon is hard. He is _already_ hard. With Jaime’s in front of her, she thinks it is a good thing she is already on her knees because her legs have gone so weak.

Jon presses a gentle kiss under her ear which makes her moan and press back into him, and he instinctually responds by grinding into her. Jaime is surprised that he doesn’t even care that Jon has also learned this secret spot on his love’s body because at that moment, Brienne opens her eyes and arms and heart and pulls him down on top of both of them, wrapping her endless legs around him and he grinds into her.

The queen draws breath to warn them, but Brienne’s hand raises Jaime’s tunic enough to show they both still wear their small clothes.

Jaime reads the intent of the gesture and after an especially long, thorough kiss, glides down her body, lips leading, unhooking her small clothes as he goes. He pauses a moment to appreciate the view. Still in tunics which provide them a small sense of privacy given the audience, he ducks under hers to suck her breasts without the fabric in the way, hand burying itself between her legs. 

He has enjoyed introducing her to this particular pleasure these past few days and as much as he tries to focus on her movements, her smells, her tastes, he realizes he cannot ignore that she is now cradled by another set of legs and arms. On one hand, she is steadier as Jon can hold her in place as he works her body with this tongue and fingers—that has some promise. On the other, he introduces a body where before there was none.

It is almost too much for Brienne. Jaime’s mouth on her below, fingers in her cunt is so much better than she fantasized while touching herself. (No, at this moment, she will _not_ let herself wonder if Lady Sansa knew.) That he loves her, had fantasized about _her_ as well. That they are married. She is surprised to find that as she squirms, Jon’s hardness behind her feels… _good_. She’s surprised he’s hard at all, but as she peaks, calling Jaime’s name, her hands in his hair, her tunic rucked up to her waist she does not care despite seeing the queen watching it all silently with dark eyes, leaning forward. Jaime’s mouth and fingers are relentless, and the second time she peaks, nearly pulling on Jon’s hair behind her as he bucks against her, she cannot even form words. His lips are on her neck, his hands on her meager breasts, and she feels that familiar ache, the ache she had once dared to think Jaime might be the first to fill. It nearly overwhelms her and it is oddly pleasing to know that though it will not be him, she _will_ be sated this night.

Jaime raises his eyes, almost feral, drinking in the sight of her satisfied and not satisfied and red and panting, knowing her hunger for him…and finding that seeing Jon looking nearly as frantic, puffing as he fights to control himself, hands on her, almost rewarding. If he cannot have her in this moment, at least the one who will feels the call of her body in addition to her sweet self.

“Ready?” Jon asks into her ear, hot and close, deep and urgent, lips lighting her afire again. 

“Yes,” she breathes, nodding and still holding Jaime’s gaze. Her husband stands up on his knees before her and pulls his tunic over his head so she might see and touch his broad, muscled chest, slim hips, and ready member as he holds his hand out to her. She mirrors him and he takes it, kissing her knuckles with all the courtliness of the knights of old. 

“I love you, Brienne.”

“And I you, Jaime. More than you’ll ever know.” Their eyes cloud and while Jon has also mirrored them, now up on his knees, he sits down to allow them a moment together. While he waits, idly stroking himself to make sure he doesn’t lose the earlier momentum, he can’t help but notice that Jaime Lannister’s chest is as scarred as his own. And Brienne’s thighs and back carry many marks as well—he suspects her torso must, too. Three warriors from different houses and kingdoms fighting a new kind of battle.

She then rests back on her heels as she and her husband regard each other for a moment. Then nearly as one, they turn to look at him and like never before, Jon feels the weight of emeralds and sapphires upon him. She gives a look to Jaime that Jon can’t quite read, but apparently Jaime can because he sits back on his heels while Brienne turns to face Jon. 

Eyes steadily on his, she reaches out to touch his face. He captures her hand with one of his own and uses the other to pull her closer. Their kiss is slow and deep and gentle, the bedroom equivalent of respected warriors touching swords for the first time in the sparring yard. _It’s how maids ought to be kissed,_ he thinks. And for all that he knows she is a warrior and woman wed, Brienne is still a maid. 

They pull back and Jaime’s arms are stroking her sides, her taut belly, her thighs. She can feel him hard behind her. Jon looks at her and slowly reaches for her tunic, and she nods. He pulls it over her head, and then his own before he steps out of his small clothes.

He kisses her again, this time thumbing one breast while Jaime pinches the other. She sighs into Jon’s mouth, one hand at his waist curving down to feel his firm ass, the other reaching back to pull Jaime tighter against her. Jaime sucks at her neck and moves his hand down between her legs, sinking once again into her.

“Brienne, your body is ready,” he murmurs into her and Jon is surprised to find he can grow even harder.

She opens her eyes, turns to capture Jaime’s lips, and then Jon’s. “Then let us begin.”

For all the seriousness and heavy lust in the room, this makes Jaime throw his head back laughing, “Wench, it was begun the moment you dropped your breeches and I had my hands on you.” Jon cannot help but snicker into her hair fondly.

“Idiots,” she mumbles, smiling. They are all grateful for this moment of mirth but go serious as Jon nudges her so she turns around, bracing herself on her arms. Jon meets Jaime’s eyes as he touches his bannerwoman in the most intimate of places and finds her hot and sopping. One hand stroking her shoulder, not breaking eye contact, he positions himself at her entrance and says, “Breathe,” just as he pushes into her in one swift, hard movement.

He forgets his own advice as he feels her tight, wet warmth instinctively flex around him and he freezes at the sensation. When he opens his eyes, he sees Daenerys watching them hungrily.

After holding Brienne’s gaze a moment, satisfied by what he sees there, Jaime looks up at Jon. “Breathe,” Jaime smirks, sounding overly serious, and Jon nods, a dark grin on his face.

“My lady? Are you alright?” he asks. Although they have slowly gotten in the habit of dropping formalities in private company, the queen’s presence and close observation makes him slip back into court address, despite his earlier entreaties.

“I am fine, your grace,” she pants as she becomes accustomed to this new feeling—it really isn’t anything like her own fingers or Jaime’s. Jon feels her tighten around him, making him throw his head back and run his hands up along her sides, her breasts, between her legs, and nearly groans in relief when she says, “Continue.” 

He is glad that she had asked for riding her hard but soon over because now that he finds himself buried hilt deep in her, it would be quite challenging to draw it out into a gentler, slower deflowering. Jaime certainly readied the woman well. He can almost hear Ygritte breathe in his ear, laughing, _Well, maybe you_ do _know something, Jon Snow. But remember, you were a maid when I found you, so be kind to this one._

So he closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on her body’s responses. They two have sparred often enough, this is just a different sort of battle. He changes his stroke, then his angle, and feels her respond. Jaime swallows her cry with a kiss instinctively. Then she collapses on her arms entirely, changing the angle further and Jon cannot suppress the moan that escapes him.

Jaime is lying on his side curled around Brienne, watching her as she gets closer and closer to her peak again, caressing her, studying her expressions. Her head almost on a level with his, tilted to the side, her ass in the air, arms in front of her grasping the mattress to brace herself as Jon pounds her from behind, Jaime wants her so badly but he thinks it’s almost worth it to be able to focus solely on her in this moment. _Almost._

Then with Jon’s latest adjustment, her eyes go wide and she reaches out to touch Jaime’s face, trails down, around, and grasps his cock with a confidence and need that takes him from half-hard to fully erect in seconds. They both shift so that she has better leverage as she braces herself on her left arm while stroking Jaime, now on his back to allow her better purchase. Jon thinks to slacken his pace to allow Ser Jaime a chance to catch up but they both turn to look at him and say at the same time, “Gods, man, don’t stop!” and “Please, harder!” 

Jon obliges. Brienne is watching Jaime rise to meet her hand, their eyes joined as Jon thumps behind her. She speeds up her pace to match Jon’s. She moans as the pressure builds, and Jon can’t help noticing that Jaime is utterly silent as he spurts into her hand, frantic eyes locked on hers, just as his own movements become erratic. Jon moves a hand to that aching nub between her legs, working it in firm strokes and she comes hard around his cock, milking it, her hand still working the aftershocks from Jaime’s climax and they groan their completion.

They collapse together, sated, and feeling surprisingly safe and content. 

Jon takes a breath, rises to his knees to reach for water, and notices for the first time that his cock is streaked with red. The reality of the situation tumbles down upon him.

Daenerys stands, eyes on his cock, the blood, nodding, color high in her cheeks, face closed. “We are sure to have gotten the heir this kingdom needs after all this,” and then stalks out, door shutting behind her. 

They are all quiet in the strange silence that is now also loaded with fear. Jaime forces himself to break his communion with Brienne and speaks, voice rough, catching Jon’s eye. “You’ll need to fuck her well tonight and tomorrow and the day after and the day after that for a while.” He idly runs a hand up Brienne’s side, stares off into the distance. “I know that look.”


	6. Aftermath, Part 1

Jon steps into his discarded breeches and fastens his cloak. He retrieves his daggers, dirk, and sword and stands before the door looking at them, unsure of what to say. What _can_ he say? 

Brienne has curled up into Jaime’s side, loose in his arms, eyelids heavy. Jon has never seen her so at ease. Jaime simply looks at the man as a lion looks at a wolf it has no need or desire to attack.

He would normally wish them much joy, but it feels inappropriate given the circumstances, however sincerely it is meant. “You are both relived of duty tomorrow, and short a major attack, you will not be disturbed for any reason at all until after the midday meal.” He bows his head. “My lord, my lady.”

Brienne surprises them all by angling her head at looking at her king, a small smile on her face. “Goodnight, Jon.” He inclines his head again, this time with his own small smile, and shuts the door gently behind him.

Jaime is studying her face, mirroring her own expression. He has been so worried about this evening, about whether Brienne could get through it with her sense of self intact, about whether they as a couple could survive it intact. But where once the sounds of another man fucking his love enraged him, somehow, he feels at peace with having actually watched it happen. Probably because _she_ seems at peace with it and she never _could_ lie to save anyone’s life. 

Brienne is watching him as well, with his golden hair and skin looking all the world like a languid, well-fed lion. She has only had the luxury of drinking the sight of him as he has reached his pleasure a handful of times before (the pun makes her giggle internally—it turns into an odd smile on her face he hasn’t learned to place quite yet) and the beauty of him feeling loved in soul and body because of _her_ still steals her breath. She reaches out to lightly trace his brow, his cheek, his jaw, his throat, his shoulders. 

_Like a bird’s wing to the sun,_ he thinks. _Or the moth’s to the moon_ , as he turns into her touch.

She moves towards him, and her kiss is feather light, but long and sure as a gull climbing the thermals. He wraps his arms around her and despite his age, finds himself surprisingly ready. He thinks it must be too soon for a maid so recently relieved of her maidenhead and tilts his hips back, only to feel her reach back, grabbing his ass to pull him closer as she instinctively spreads her legs for him.

“You’re sure? Aren’t you sore?”

“Yes and yes. But I want you. And it’s not so bad. But can you be slower, maybe a bit gentler than Jon?”

Jaime can’t stop the wicked smile that breaks across his face, sunlight pushing through heavy cloud cover, laughing, crawling on top of her. “Ah, my lady. You’ve had a taste of a young man’s touch: let me introduce you to the pleasure of a more experienced man.”

She swats him, but not with any real strength or ire and finds herself reflecting his smile from below. And _this_ is how she thought it would be on her wedding night when Jaime first proposed: he above and she below, smiles and laughter and bravado and love. One thing she no longer has to worry about, however, is not knowing what goes where or what to do. She already knows enough to be sure that they will figure it out. If this was the coin they had to pay for such happiness, however brief it may be with the war, it was worth it.

And they do. After a time, at her urging, he sinks into her with abandon and they both feel like they have come home.

As he snores contentedly against her, arms wrapped solidly around her, Brienne reflects it is the most pervasive yet sweetest ache she has ever known.

\---

Jon joins his own lady in their chamber and finds her very ready and willing. Thinking on Jaime’s advice—and truly, he can’t think of any more chilling wisdom borne from experience shared with him, not from Lord Commander Mormont nor Maester Aegon ( _Maester Aegon! he nearly gasps to himself_ ), not from Mance Rayder, not even from Qhorin Halfhand. Counsel on fighting wights and the winter is one thing; counsel on dealing with your mad love is quite another. And for while the call of Brienne’s body was as strangely sweet as she is, he has known the passion of lovers.

The king has his duty and loses himself in it, his love, and his senses for a time, grateful for the temporary oblivion, content to put off his worry for another day, banishing Jaime Lannister’s baleful words and look from his mind.

\---

As promised, Brienne and Jaime are left undisturbed all morning and generous rations are brought to them at noon. Jaime only smiles wider when the serving girl enters and catches them in bed quietly wrapped around each other, modestly covered. She bobs her curtsey and rushes out as quickly as she dares, eyes on the floor but clearly seeing them in her periphery vision. She shuts the door behind her and he snickers into Brienne’s hair, pulling her tighter against him. He knows she will tell tales, and Seven bless her for that: let them all know how sincerely he loves his wife.

Amongst the food and wine on the tray is a sealed note from the king. Brienne breaks it and reads it aloud. They are to join the council after the midday meal. It sobers them a tad, but they bask in the luxury of being with each other, sure of the other, and the realm having to acknowledge it as well. _The queen has seen it firsthand, and the king experienced it,_ Jaime thinks a little bitterly, his smile taking on a wry cast that his brother would understand.

They demolish the contents of the tray for they have worked up quite an appetite and Brienne is surprised to find herself completely unshy about getting dressed in front of Jaime. She acknowledges it makes sense that she should not care given what they have shared in the past (let alone the past few days), but her modesty and discomfort with others looking at her body is so deeply ingrained within her very being. He is watching her but now she knows what this particular look means and it warms her and she smiles to let him know. He lets his breath out, his eyes going soft.

As she pulls up fresh small clothes and steps into her breeches, she thinks that her discomfort-driven modesty is a part of her she is as glad to have parted ways with along with her maidenhead.

When they enter the council chamber, they find themselves in a large company. It’s not quite the full complement of lords and ladies assembled in the north, but neither is it a small council. While the queen and king sit next to each other, the camps are quite starkly divided if one knows how to look.

Sitting on the queen’s side are Tyrion (who spares them both a genuine but wicked smile as they enter), Missandei, Grey Worm, Ser Jorah, and a Dothraki warrior Brienne knows not. 

On the king’s side, Ser Davos and Sansa sit the closest followed by Tormund, Arya, Bran, Sam, Gilly, and young Lady Mormont whom now even the hoariest northern lords acknowledge as the chief of the northern bannermen under House Stark. 

Brienne moves unthinkingly to King Jon’s side behind Sansa and Jaime follows. He and his brother share another look. The king has more people, it is plain to all…but the queen has dragons. 

Off in a corner—by choice seemingly, as there is plenty of room at the table—sit Beric Dondarrion, Sandor Clegane, and Gendry Waters, leaning against a wall, quiet and listening.

Varys is positioned squarely in the middle (of course) and at the front at the opposite side from them. Lord Royce sits beside him, arms crossed. 

Interesting.

Daenerys shares what she, Jon, and her scouts have found this morning. The Others are moving south with a massive force—which they all knew, but she provides numbers and positions. Brienne has to give it to her—the queen does so calmly but it is also clear that she recognizes the gravity of their situation and is not blindly expecting her dragons to save them all. And she went herself. That’s something. For all her _very_ personal gripes with her grace, she thinks he begins to see why Jaime’s brother has invested so much in her, why Jon bent the knee.

As he listens, Jaime is doing sums in his head, mentally placing their varied forces in different positions, trying different tactics. Even with two dragons and what’s left of the Wall, it will be difficult given the dragon-wight and sheer numbers of dead which he knows will only grow the longer they fight.

There is discussion about sending an advance force up to the remaining Wall to provide reinforcements to the Night’s Watch. Some think that all their fighting forces ought to go. Debate dissolves into argument. 

Nothing is decided, but tempers flare. Sighing, Daenerys dismisses everyone till the morrow.

\--

Lady Sansa calls for food and drink, bringing Brienne into her solar, and dismisses the guards. 

_“Well?”_ she grins widely after presenting Brienne with a full goblet of wine.

Brienne tries to willfully misunderstand, but Sansa gives her a look.

“It is done.” Brienne tries to remain stoic. While she has always tried to be of service to Lady Sansa, there has always been a barrier between them. Although she is not much older than her, they are such different women. She nurses a hope that perhaps one day Lady Arya and she might perhaps become friends as they both have long decided that they will not be ladies in the traditional sense. But Sansa? She is a noble lady to her soul: just as she and Arya were born to hold a sword, Sansa was born to wield words. But the care her lady has shown her these past days…perhaps they might one day be friends after all.

“I noticed you and Ser Jaime did not join the morning meal,” Sansa observes calmly preparing a plate for her with nuts and cheese.

“Yes, we were likely still sleeping. We had been up quite late.”

Sansa raises her eyebrows. “Aaaand?”

“And it was eventful.”

Sansa gives her a stern look. Her lady huffs her exasperation, rolling her eyes. “Brienne, I know you did not wish this. I know Jon did not wish this. I know how awful an unwanted bedding is. _How_ are _you?_ ”

Brienne does not miss that Sansa has not included Jaime in her list of the wronged, but sets it aside for the moment and smiles at her. “I am fine. Jaime and Jon saw to that.”

Sansa nods, glad, and if a hint of bitterness shades her eyes, Brienne doesn’t begrudge her. 

“Brienne, know that despite how we began, I trust you, even with you now married to Jaime Lannister.” She pauses. “I did not make you choose between him and your duty because I trust that you would not have married him had you thought he would put you in such a position.”

Brienne nods, silenced by love and fear and pride.

“And Jon, not having known you or your oath to my mother, he trusts you as well, _deeply_.” (Brienne is proud that she doesn’t snicker at this. … _Gods, is Jaime’s attitude contagious?_ ) “As do Ser Davos and Tormund and so many others.” Sansa takes Brienne’s look. “I do not like who you wed, but it is your choice and as I have trusted you before, I shall continue to do so. I shall also endeavor to trust Ser Jaime. A little. For your sake.” Even after studying at Littlefinger’s knee for so long, Sansa does find it hard to lie to Brienne and so does not.

When she is dismissed, Brienne lets her feet take her wherever they want to go. She needs to move to think and for the moment, she needs to be some place where she won’t have to deal with the pitying looks of her friends, the guilty look of her king, or the complicated looks of her husband, which she is only beginning to fully decipher. That leaves out the training yards and the godswood. 

She finds herself in the library, empty aside from Gilly Tarly— _Lady Tarly?_ she wonders, unsure of the particulars of their situation. But then, people might say the same of her and Jaime, so perhaps it puts them on more equal footing.

Brienne got on with Sam once they had established that they both were victims of his father’s cruelty and were both people of honor, they became fast friends. Brienne, Sam, and Gilly admired each other for being what they were not, and formed a very comfortable triad at court occasions when Brienne was not attending Lady Sansa and Jaime was elsewhere.

For all that, Brienne and Gilly hadn’t spent much time alone given where each worked. But today, head full of strange thoughts and feeling a strong, but oddly pleasant aching between her thighs, Brienne isn’t disappointed to see Gilly alone here. After all, she is the closest thing she has to a female friend, one who is a mother to boot, so she knows about…things.

“Lady Brienne! I did not expect to find you here. Especially today!” Gilly is as sincere and therefore as harmlessly tactless as her husband.

“Lady Gilly, I am glad to see you.” 

Gilly blushes---she is not yet used to being called such, although the northern court has (mostly) wordlessly accepted Sam as both maester, brother of the Night’s Watch, _and_ Lord Tarly, along with his lady and their children. “You do not often come to the library,” she prompts.

“No. I needed to get way from the stares and the whispers.” Looking around, ensuring they are alone, Brienne lowers her voice to a whisper. “Even away from _them_ , just for a while.”

Gilly nods her understanding, takes Brienne’s hand and sits them both down, backs against the far wall so they can observe the entrances. She’s not Craster’s daughter for nothing. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Everyone keeps asking me that. And I understand why, and I am grateful, I am, but yes, I am fine.”

Gilly still has her hand and strokes it. “I’m glad, Brienne.”

She doesn’t have to say more for Brienne to feel quite awful about her resentment of Sansa’s questions or even Gilly’s because she knows they’ve both suffered so much more. They had to ask because they didn’t know, they refused to assume despite Jaime’s public declarations, less public indications, and Jon’s stoic goodness. 

Brienne tightens her hand around Gilly’s and whispers so low not even little birds could hear her. “It was strange. The feeling alone—that would have been strange had it been Jaime and me by ourselves, but to have the queen watching and the king…he was kind, but it was strange.”

Gilly nods. Many of her sisters looked on the first time Craster took her. Some had tried to whisper words of advice beforehand to make the way easier, while others had been angry and resentful. She’s glad that Ser Jaime and King Jon had been kind, and it had not been more difficult for Brienne.

“Gilly, I’m terrified. What if I get with child?”

“Then you’ll carry it. It will be quite heavy—even for you—but you’ll get through it.”

“But…winter!” Gilly gives her a mild look that manages to cow Brienne more swiftly than any of Cersei’s most pointed stares in that moment. Brienne sputters, “I won’t know who the father is…if there is a child, I mean, because Jaime and I, afterwards…”

Gilly smiles up at Brienne, hand still in her own. “Sam loves Little Sam more than Craster loved any of us, and he knew we were his own get for generations. I’ve seen the way Ser Jaime looks at you. The way Sam talks about King Jon, what you’ve said about him. I think that should you have a child after last night, no matter who got it on you, there will be good fathers enough.”

“What if I have to fight? There are Others on our very doorstep! This is not the time to breed! And what if I’m not a good mother?” Brienne finally breathes out her greatest fear. “I don’t even remember my own much at all. I don’t know what they do!”

Gilly wraps her arm around the woman who is a few years older and nearly twice her size in a motherly embrace. “Oh, I think you’ll be fine if it comes to that. It’s just a different sort of battle.”


	7. Aftermath, Part II

After the not-so-small council, Sansa calls Lady Brienne to her and Jaime knows better than to follow. Once again, lacking any particular duty (and feeling a bit ragged after the exertions of the previous night…and morning…if he’s honest with himself), he finds himself in the godswood and sits before the heart tree. 

Ghost pads up and sits next to him, head on his knee. Jaime smiles fondly down at the beast, laughing a little at himself as he rakes his remaining fingers through its fur. The direwolf’s ears prick up but it doesn’t otherwise move as just then King Jon settles himself next to Jaime.

“Ser Jaime, it’s good to see you smiling.”

“I was just thinking that if you told me ten—even five—years ago that I would be fondling the king’s direwolf in the godswood at Winterfell where I was married to a woman who is not Cersei and that it was the happiest day of my life…that I would then let another man—let alone another king—bed her, and yet somehow be less bothered by it than before…”

Jon raises his eyebrows and nods, smiling faintly. It’s all certainly implausible when you put it like that.

Jaime continues, “But then, maybe it’s because you’re your father’s son. I knew Aerys wasn’t troubled by raping his wife, but Rhaegar and Lyanna…I couldn’t credit that he’d stolen her. He wasn’t the kind of man who would take a woman against her will and like Brienne, Lyanna could have matched him with her blade.”

“You knew my father well, Ser Jaime?”

“Just Jaime, lad. We’re not in court. Anyhow, you’ve fucked my wife and I killed your grandfather. If that’s not being on intimate terms, I don’t know what is.” Jaime’s grin is rueful, but holds no animosity. 

“And I am just Jon with you, and Lady—and Brienne.”

Jaime nods and continues. “Did I know Rhaegar well? I think I knew him better than anyone yet living, and being a kingsguard, I certainly spent a lot of time in his presence.” His fingers idly work through Ghost’s ruff as the direwolf dozes. “He was a quiet man, but loved by all. He read a lot—I think he, Tyrion, Sam and Gilly Tarly would have his favor. He fought because he had to, not because the song of steel called to him. He preferred the songs of the harp.” 

Jaime’s eyes are distant, verdant summer hills. “I spoke with him before he went to face Robert at the Trident, you know. He promised me he would call a council about his father. To discuss what needed to be done. But then he was killed.”

Jaime is quiet a few moments, and they listen to the random noises of the forest, ice-laden leaves falling, mice in the undergrowth, wind in the leaves. “Rhaegar was close to Ser Arthur Dayne, whom I idolized. He knighted me.” Jaime meets Jon’s eyes, sad and warm. “When I was a boy, all I wanted was to be as honorable and as skilled a knight as the Light of the Morning.” He laughs silently at himself, and Jon suddenly sees the man’s years settle on him. It occurs to him that while he and Brienne are of an age, Jaime’s is actually much closer to his father’s.

“What happened, then? With Aerys?”

Jaime gives him a sidelong look, seeming far more a wolf than lion in the moment. “You know, you’re only the second person to ask me that?”

Jon is stunned and can only ask, “What? How?”

“Everyone thought they knew. They all had their different versions of the story. Some thought I killed him so my father could take Kings Landing and the crown—Ned Stark, for one. Others thought that _I_ wanted the Iron Throne. I did sit on it after I killed him and his pyromancers. I wanted to know who would come, who thought they should have it, what they would do next.” He sighs. “In the end, while Ned Stark was first to arrive, he let Robert Baratheon take it.” Again, a sidelong look to Jon. “I wonder how things might have been different if poor dead Ned _had_ taken it instead of that ass Robert Baratheon. How much blood spared.”

“Jaime, you didn’t answer my question. Why did you?”

He sighs and looks Jon in the eyes. He is well-caught and figures he owes him this truth for many reasons. “When you are a Kingsguard, your job is to protect the king above all else. Make sense?”

Jon nods, wondering where this is going but remains silent.

“I remember exactly where I stood, the way the slanting sunlight painted the hallway outside the royal bedchambers the first time I stood guard and listened to the king beat and rape Queen Rhaella. Ser Barristan was the other guard and when I asked shouldn’t we go to assist her, he reminded me my duty was to the king, not the queen.”

Jon is silent.

“That was bad. Very bad. I thought my white cloak meant I was supposed to defend women and children, the helpless and the weak, but apparently, not the queen, not if it’s from the king and you take the White. And then Aerys grew more paranoid: instead of bothering with something so mundane as putting his enemies to trial and executing them, swinging the sword, no—I watched Rickard and Brandon Stark die, one trying to save the other, tortured to death by blade and fire and for no other reason than demanding to know what had happened to Lyanna. And they weren’t the only ones. So when my father stood at the city gates with his army, when Aerys’s only allies were the pyromancers and the king ordered me to kill my father and for them to burn the entire city down with the caches of wildfire he’d planted underneath us all…it was too much. I killed the chief pyromancer and then the king.” His eyes are hard and almost defensive. “For all that came after, I do not regret it. It was my finest hour.”

Jon is quiet and still, but Ghost nuzzles his nose into Jaime’s hand, prompting him to continue stroking him.

“And you said only one other person asked you why?”

“Yes. Guess.”

Jon thinks it should have been Cersei or Tyrion or Tywin, but then things fit together in his head. “Brienne.”

“Yes,” Jaime smiles darkly, “And I probably only told her because when she asked, I was half-dead from fever, blood loss, and the heat of the bath after losing my hand. A girl who I had to admit was a finer warrior than most of the young knights I’d fought with, twice as idealistic, thrice as ugly, and four times as judgmental. She asked…but then she actually listened. I think that might be when I began to fall in love with her.”

Jon wonders about the “heat of the bath” bit but decides to leave it for later. “Cersei didn’t ask?”

“No. Even then, she did not. Looking back, I can begin to piece together when I stopped loving her, the things she did that smothered my devotion, but when did she stop loving me? Did she ever, I wonder? Was she always so mad for power and I was too blind to see it, or was it something that grew in her with each slap she had at Robert’s hands that I was powerless to stop because she bid me not to become a kingslayer twice over, at each whore she had to throw out of their bed?” Jaime raises his head, eyes closed, feeling occasional snowflakes filter down through the leaves. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. She _did_ go mad and she did what I slew the Mad King to stop. And I _didn’t_ kill her. I could have, maybe I _should_ have, but I didn’t because I loved her. My love for her was such a part of me that I couldn’t see it when _she_ became the Mad Queen.”

Jon lays his arm on Jaime’s shoulder. “I forgive you, Jaime: for killing my grandfather because he did have to be killed, and for not killing your sister. Just promise me that one day, you’ll think about forgiving me, should I fail or succeed. Because what kind of victory is there in that kind of choice anyhow?” 

Jaime slips his own arm around Jon, and holds Rhaegar’s son, direwolf in his lap, the three of them quiet and still in the falling snow.

\------

That night, after soft kisses and long touches, Daenerys climbs on top of Jon and rides him hard. He bucks underneath her, rising as they fly high, his rough hands forming her soft arms, hips, breasts.

One thumb on her nipple, one thumb on her pearl, he strokes her over the edge, both calling out their pleasure. 

She melts down, still cradling him inside and around her. Jon holds her tighter. She kisses him deeply. They lie quiet.

“If I bleed this moon, I want you to try again with Brienne.”

It’s everything he can do to be still, to not loosen his hold on her.

He does not want this. Brienne does not want this. He hopes their lords and ladies will not stand for this.

\------

Brienne is seeing to the training of their more advanced fighters alongside Tormund and Ser Yohn Royce. Their training time is nearly done by the ever-shortening turn of the sun, but King Jon joins them and assists with corrections and suggestions.

Ser Yohn leaves at the appointed time with no backwards look, but Tormund spares a moment to consider Jon and Brienne once the fighters have cleared the yard. He loves them both, but knows that what clouds the air between them is nothing he can help with, so he takes a moment to individually clap each on the shoulder before giving each a significant, solemn look, thrusts a tourney blade into each of their hands, and as he strides off calls behind him in a truly fantastic impression of Sandor Clegane, “Sort it, you sorry cunts.”

Brienne and Jon can’t help but laugh because it’s so spot-on. “I could use with a good bout, if you don’t mind.”

She smiles, “Always,” and picks up her own. It’s late enough, close enough to the evening meal, that no one actually pays them any mind aside from Pod who is setting things to rights quietly behind them, and Pod is family.

Jon has only sparred with Brienne a few times, but knows enough that he shouldn’t underestimate her. She has also learned enough about his habits that while it’s not quite the epic dance that she and Jaime trace, it’s got a rhythm of its own. He’s smaller and weaker than she is, but he is well trained and moves quickly, power coming from fighting with his true hand. 

With the give and take between them, unbidden, the thought that fighting is not unlike fucking crosses her mind—a seed Jaime planted so very long ago. She feels herself turn red and so turns her mind more completely into the battle, concentrating only on her sword against his and _no_ she screams at herself, not _that_ one. Although she has another epiphany realizing what all the knights in Renly’s camp were going on about as they swapped tales drunk around the campfires.

It makes her redouble her attack and soon Jon is in the dust, yielding, his eyes dark.

Brienne is winded as well and allows herself to flop down in the dirt about a hand span away, both of them still breathing hard. It’s an act of trust that she’s only extended to Jaime or Pod the rare time he’s able to win.

Ghost lies down between them, muzzle in her armpit.

“It’s funny,” she pants. “I never belonged: not at home where after the Seven saw fit to take my brother and sisters to make me heir, not in Renly’s camp where I won the right and honor to serve in his kingsguard, not in Winterfell where I told Lady Sansa of my oath to her mother to keep her and her sister safe. I was accepted as a member of household, but I never belonged.” She turns her head and catches Jon’s eye. “…Not until Jaime came and declared for you and asked for my hand all at the same time. Then somehow, I had a place. Lady Sansa truly accepted me, not as a game piece she could play, but as a person. Tyrion had to, for his brother’s sake—they love each other even if they haven’t relearned how to show it or admit it. And the queen followed your lead. You accepted me because Sansa did, I think.”

It’s a question, and Jon nods his head. “I did for her sake. She’d told me. Then when Arya came and I saw you with her. And Tormund,” Jon’s eyes crinkle as Brienne goes even redder. “He’s a good man, a good friend. I wish it could have worked out—would have been easier for everyone if it had,” he tilts a melancholy smile at her. “Still. I saw you. And I know what it is to be among but not of.” She meets his eyes again. “Have you heard of my time amongst the Free Folk? When I was still a member of the Night’s Watch?”

Brienne shakes her head. “I know you served and that you went beyond the Wall…that it’s how you met Tormund and the rest, but no.”

Looking up into the darkening sky, snowflakes falling, Jon recounts his adventures, particularly of his time with Ygritte and what it meant to him to learn to love the enemy, of how useless such designations are in real life, in the real battles. He turns his face to hers. 

“You remind me of her, a little...just a little—she was much bolder and wouldn’t have tolerated a quarter of what you do, but like Tormund, she would have instantly appreciated your skill and your heart. She would have liked you. I think you would have liked her.”

“I’m sure I would have, Jon.”

“I wanted so badly to be a part of the proper Stark family when I was a lad. And Ned, bless him, and Robb, always made me feel so. But they died first. Arya, Arya always loved me. But even before we all found out who I was, when it came to it, Sansa and Bran came to see me as their family.”

Brienne smiles, thinking about her own siblings, a list of names that has become a nearly empty litany of names no one else recalls nor cares about.

“Ygritte, she was supposed to be my greatest enemy, but instead, I found my great—a great love.”

“You expected to find someone awful and detestable and dishonorable, but instead…” 

“I found someone who knew me better than anyone, who fearlessly called me out on my assumptions and challenged me and made me a better man.”

“Experiencing that. It’s something else, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” They lay there, watching the snowflakes lazily fall to ground around them.

Jon looks to her, and takes her hand. “What I’m trying to say as that you have family. My sister made the vow and I honor it: you will always have a place at our hearth, meat at our table, mead in your cup. I swear it: by the old gods and the new.”

They smile and for a moment, everything is warm and safe. And although it’s not the first time she’s heard these words, it’s the first time she’s actually felt the intent could be true outside of Jaime’s arms or of Evenfall Hall. Sansa said them because she felt she had to, but Jon means them to his bones, would have even if not for...the other thing.

His smile fades has his fingers tighten around her own. “I won’t lie or dissemble, Brienne. There’s something you should know.”

\------

That night, wrapped around each other, Brienne shares what’s she’s learned from Jon.

“Jaime, Jon is worried.”

He gathers her closer. “It’s not our fight.”

“He’s afraid she will make it so.”

“Well then, let us lay our plans.” 

She turns further into him and captures his lips with her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's all I've got on this for now. I can definitely see where it might go, but I'm not sure if I'm interested enough to actually write it. I swear this is not trolling for comments: I truly don't know if I care enough about the endgame of this cracky bit of nonsense to see it through. At the very least, though, there will be at least one more chapter that wraps things up. It will probably be a couple of weeks though so I can figure out if I want to keep writing this in earnest or lay it to rest, and regardless of which, do it with some sort of quality control.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who have joined me on this weird journey!


	8. What Follows

Brienne is grateful every day that Jon has been so frank with them. If it were anyone else, she would wonder at whether he might be trusted, but one look at his sad grey eyes confirms the sincerity of his words. 

This consistent forthrightness is what makes her pull him aside one day after sparring, making noises about inspecting something or other, Pod and Tormund running interference to give them privacy. She and Jaime spoke of it long into the night, but no matter how they turned it around in their heads, he has to know: it is likely she is with child. Brienne knows her body and Jaime knows the changes—both Brienne’s, but also what to look for based on his experience with Cersei. True, it could be the lack of food, the difficulties they face that delay her bleeding, but week after week, it’s harder to explain away. Her flat chest is infinitesimally more full and exponentially more tender. They both come to the conclusion together, thunderstruck. Then they make passionate, terrified love because they also know that once it is known, the delicate, dangerous balance of their lives will shift yet again, here on the blade of winter. Not having done more than doze, they make slower, languorous love in dawn’s scant light these days, prolonging the inevitable. 

Jon must be told. They need to think through the announcement to the queen. Things will change.

So once her squire and friend clear the field (unexpectedly, Tormund has truly become a friend, something that continues to baffle her), she pulls Jon into a corner where she gestures idly to a pile of blunted weapons for show and says quietly, “Jon, it is likely I am with child.”

Jon does his best to breathe around the impact of her words and compose his face like he imagines a king might upon hearing concerns about the quality of his army’s training steel and not his possible line of succession. 

“Oh?” Is the best he can manage under the circumstances. It’s not bad.

Brienne tries not to grimace and instead crosses her arms and nods to a pile of leathers that desperately needs mending. Jon thinks absently that this _is_ something one of his commanders would talk to him about and thank the gods that Brienne is somehow more clearheaded about this than he is at this news. _I’ll make it up to her later,_ he thinks.

“How do we tell her grace?” 

Here he is on stronger ground. “She will want to hear this from you. She will want to think she is one of the first to know of it. Be ready to confess it and practice delivering the news as if you only determined the cause of it yourself.” He is quiet a moment, eyes on the ground before he meets hers again. “She will want to claim the babe. I…” His hands begin to move, then ball up, finally resting on belt, “I know what you and Ser Jaime will be hoping for. I will hope for a golden-haired green-eyed babe as well. Regardless, know I will protect this child however I can.” His eyes meet hers. “That I will care for this child and its family for you are part of mine.”

The warmth of Brienne’s hand on his is a warm ghost, as is the brief smile haunting her homely face. 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

“I told him.”

“We’ll see then.” Jaime holds her tight, his strong hand cupping her still flat belly, nose in her neck, blessing the Seven for giving them even this chance.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

“Your grace,” Brienne bows with as much poise as she can manage (which isn’t much), but Daenerys appreciates her effort. While the rest of her ladies do so much more prettily, Brienne’s efforts mean more. “I would speak with you alone.”

Lady Brienne has never sought her company despite her…unique…position so she is intrigued and Daenerys tries to smother the hope in her heart. Why else would the lady seek her out? She would be a mother to all her children and so much the better if Brienne is ready to approach her as such. She smiles as warmly as she knows how and does not realize her regard feels like the threat of a hot stove too close and not its comforting warmth. 

“Your grace,” Brienne tries again now that they are ostensibly alone. (She is no longer so naive to think that there aren’t servants or agents listening to their every word and she is grateful that she has practiced this with Jaime and Jon in grunts in the practice yard. Jaime quips that it is merely a new way of fighting, that this is her learning to take a sword left-handed. What can she possibly say to that?)

“Please, call me Daenerys when we are alone together. You are my loyal bondswoman and have known my husband.” Her face is calm and smiling. It terrifies Brienne.

“D...Daenerys, I thought you should know that…that…that I think…I am with child.” Brienne’s obvious fear and discomfort writ large on her red face make Daeny gather her up in her arms, stroking her, head down to her shoulder to her waist.

“That is _wonderful_ news, Brienne, and I’m so glad you came to me with it first.”

Brienne cannot lie, even though she knows this is not wise. “I…I told Jaime. I wasn’t sure. He—He’s known a pregnant woman before, what to look for.”

“And you were so right to be honest with me, Brienne,” she says smiling. Her eyes are a touch colder, but her hands gentle as they cup Brienne’s face. “I wish you had told me first of your suspicions, but I realize that as a maid, you wouldn’t have recognized the symptoms so quickly as Ser Jaime who has been a father thrice over.” 

“Well, and once Jaime realized, I had to let Jon know. And,” she soldiers on, “then you needed to know as soon as possible, of course.”

Daenerys’s violet eyes hold a brief touch of frost, but she kisses Brienne’s brow. “You should have told me first, but I am glad that you have been honest and faithful in confessing your mistakes. Do not make them again. The minute you suspect anything with the child, I am to be told first. I will make sure you are taken care of and protected: you may hold the future of Westeros.”

Brienne nods, her face curiously blank. She thinks perhaps this is how Jaime learned this particular skill.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They are relieved that it went well. The next day, Jon discretely manages to drop word that Daenerys spoke to him about it and that she is thrilled and quite happy with Brienne’s behavior. It makes their summons to her private solar less terrifying than it would have been otherwise. 

They find the queen and king attended by Tyrion and a cozy repast spread on the table. Daenerys fusses over Brienne a bit before she hits her with a new decree: while she is carrying the heir, Brienne will not fight. She allows that she may spar until she starts showing provided she wears full plate and only with Jon and Jaime. 

“But…but… _Pod!_ ” Brienne sputters, forgetting in the moment that she is addressing her queen.

Surprisingly, Daenerys considers and relents, a fond smile revealing a dimple. “Yes, and Pod. It is clear the boy dotes on you and will be our child’s most faithful protector after his parents.” The queen’s smile is genuinely warm and sweet, her eyes full of fondness as one hand takes Brienne’s and the other Jon’s.

It escapes no one that she is already claiming the child.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Later in their chambers, Brienne furiously, silently destroys a chair cushion in her fury and frustration. Jaime lets her for a bit, and when he sees her begin to flag, pulls her into his arms whereupon she dissolves into soundless, sloppy sobs into his jerkin. He cradles her, rocks her, murmurs calming noises into her hair. 

She has collected herself and they sit side-by-side, hand-in-hand on their massive bed when Tyrion knocks and enters. 

He instantly regards the fluffy innards and discarded cushion carcass strewn about, sees Brienne resting against Jaime, almost looking small. “Well, I suppose I can’t say I’m surprised by any of this, but I think given all the…” he waves his hands about, “circumstances, it’s not bad.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow at his brother in their wordless language. _“Not bad?”_

Tryion’s expression says, _“Hey, it could be worse. No one died. No one lost anything.”_

Brienne finally croaks, “I can’t fight. She won’t let me fight.”

Jaime tries to make light of it, “You’ll still have me to kick around. Pod, too! And given the circumstances, I think our sad-eyed king will find reasons to have you step up his sword training.”

Brienne glares at him for they also have their language of looks, but for Tyrion’s benefit, Jaime continues. “I know it’s not what you want. I know it goes against who you think you are.” She bristles, but Jaime tightens his hand on hers, eyes on hers. “I know something about that, not what you’re going through exactly, but what it’s like to suddenly find yourself relegated to something very different, opposite from who you thought you were.”

Her expression is still fierce, but less hostile and her grip has turned from bruising to clinging.

He continues, “I won’t lie and say it was wonderful. It was horrible and painful. But wonderful things came out of it,” He smiles at her, eyes full. Then they all shift their gazes to Brienne’s belly, still flat. “I won’t lie and say part of me isn’t relieved: I want you and our child to survive this winter and because you are one of our best warriors, you would otherwise be on the front lines. I know that this is not what _you_ would choose, though. But if it has to be, I’m glad you’ll be here with my brother, with Lady Sansa, with the maester. Hells, maybe I’ll be here too: do they need a one-handed battle commander at the front? I don’t know.”

Tyrion walks to her and takes her other hand. “Brienne,” and while she knows his expression is significant, his face is a book she doesn’t yet know how to truly read despite occasionally being able to place a few phrases from Jaime’s own. Tyrion understands and so says it plain but so quietly. “I suspect you’re afraid for many reasons because you are not a stupid woman. Whatever happens, you are not alone here. You have so very many friends who want you well, child or no. Even if she and Jon take Jaime with them, it’s unlikely I will be called. But even then, you still have those who will make sure you and the babe—whomever sired it—will be as well and loved as possible in this winter: Pod, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, Tormund, Sandor...”

Brienne knows Tryion means well. She even suspects he is completely genuine and is grateful to have a politically savvy goodbrother because she truly does know her own strength and lack thereof. She nods to him, and he takes his leave of them both.

Jaime turns to her so she turns to him and he gently bumps his forehead against hers. “I know this is a lot.”

“It really is.”

They’re quiet for a bit. He leaves space, praying she will fill it but content to just sit with her, breathe her scent in, just _be_ with her in this moment of warmth, comfort, and peace. To be there for her.

Finally, after an indeterminate length of time, she speaks, her unused voice hoarse, cracking, “Jaime, I don’t know how to be a mother. I don’t even remember my own.”

Because he is wiser than he used to be, he stays quiet but holding her with all his strength. The back of his mind recalls his mother because he actually can and unbidden, the feel of her fingers through his hair, the unconditional warmth and strength of her arms, part of him relaxes into the memory and seeks to give Brienne the same comfort, the same sense of strength through his touch.

It must work because she continues leaning into him. “I left Tarth wondering what worth I had if I could not provide an heir for my people.” She laughs and it sounds a tad hysteric. Jaime can’t blame her, though. “Not being even just plain _plain_ enough to wed, I became a knight. Well, a warrior with knightly ideals at least. I fought and fought and fought and now here I am reduced to a pregnant woman bearing _some_ house an heir. I don’t know how to be a lady!” She’s almost in tears, and then they spill over despite her desperate battle to keep them in.

Jaime takes her face in his hand, eyes steady and full of love. Then he kisses the slow, fat tracks down her face with an equal deliberateness and then seizes her eyes again. “Brienne, you are _already_ a lady. You always were. You’re just a different sort than the others and I love you for it. Think: even by the most stringent septa’s teachings,” (here Brienne shrinks a little), “what _does_ a lady do? She musters the bannermen, provisions the forces, protects the weak, sees to the needs of the followers. I _know_ you do these things in the context of a camp. A holding, a castle, and a kingdom are just larger camps…and you’ve been doing these things for quite a while. They may have balked at you then, but they will not balk at you now: you proved them wrong. You knocked them into the dust as you’ve always done. And you are not just the child in your belly but I cannot begin to tell you how glad it makes me to know you are breeding, even in this horrible time at the edge of the world, even if it’s Jon Snow’s.”

She draws back, but the gentleness of his touch and fierce sincerity of his eyes don’t let her withdraw. This is a look she’s seen on Tyrion mostly, but in retrospect, she realizes it is not a new expression for Jaime. And it’s sincere.

“Yes, even so. I love you. I will love the child you bring forth regardless of whether its hair is gold or black. Whether or not the child inherits the Iron Throne, Tarth, or just a quiet forgotten homestead somewhere, should we be so lucky.” He laughs, “Hell, a king raised three of my children with the woman I loved then, it’s only fair I might raise a king’s as my own, although I promise to do better by it than Robert did of mine. I already love this child because I know part of it is you and one of the only things I know is that the world needs more like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this update took faaaaar longer than I thought and I _still_ don't know how all this will end, but this story isn't dead yet, although it might be pining for the fjords. Still, there will at least be an epilogue if I can't coax more chapters out of this strange beast.


	9. The First Consequence

In council, Jon and Daenerys tell them all about the coming onslaught of Others and wights some months away that they delay with their dragons’ burnings, greatly hampered by the ice dragon’s counter-attacks. When not out helping refortify the keeps of the Nights’ Watch, Jaime advises on the defenses of Winterfell while Brienne sees to the training of not just troops, but also unseasoned boys and girls because now all agree that all arms will be needed when winter’s inexorable grasp reaches out for them.

In the great hall, Daenerys has put Brienne and Jaime respectively to her left. (Sansa does not begrudge her loss of place at all; she is quite content to be at Jon’s right, Arya beside her.) The queen is often seen placing a choice cut on Brienne’s plate, smiling warmly, violet eyes aglow.

Jon grasps the queen’s hand and manages a sincerely warm smile at Brienne.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * 

“For how full my plate was and how hungry I am, I thought dinner would _never_ be done,” Brienne huffs once they are back in their chambers, servants gone, as she pokes the fire.

Jaime wraps his arms around her, hand protectively cupping her now protruding belly. “I know it’s not easy, but you did well. You _do_ well for all your worry that you are not a ‘proper’ lady.”

“But I’m _not,_ ” Brienne nearly whines, tired and spent after the day, and disgusted by herself.

“You are,” Jaime smiles into her neck. “You are being the lady of your house, seeing to the preparations of the future while breeding the next generation.” Then he gently lips the junction of her neck and shoulder which he knows will make her knees buckle and turn to him. He is correct in his assumption and her worried, improbably beautiful eyes meet his. His stump strokes down her side as his hand cups her face and they drink long.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * 

With this new information about the Others’ advance, Daenerys announces Brienne’s pregnancy and that this child will be her and Aegon’s heir until they get one of their own. She also declares that Ser Jaime will stay behind and the Lannister troops will be commanded by her husband seeing as they might not feel so kindly towards their rightful queen and her dragons in deference to having incinerated over half of their numbers when they last met on the battlefield.

Jaime’s nails score his remaining palm, but his face is stoic and bland. Brienne lays a stealthy hand on his knee under the table.

They share just a fraction of a glance, but it’s enough for him to take strength and hold his tongue. Once they have secured their chamber door, Brienne catches him as he falls apart and rages, turning his anger into a heat of another kind.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

Daenerys, Jon, Tormund, Sandor, Grey Worm, and the rest go out on to harry the oncoming army of wights.

Tyrion and Sansa stand side by side, flanked respectively by Jaime and Brienne. Missandei stands slightly alone, chin high, face brave. 

Varys glides to her side, gently places his hand on her shoulder, his breath steaming through his nose like dragon smoke in the frigid air.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

Jaime’s anger is tempered only by his gratefulness to be by Brienne’s side as her pregnancy progresses and surprisingly, by sparring with Arya Stark, the only other person as frustrated and furious at being left behind as he is. Daenerys said it was to protect her sister, the Lady of Winterfell, and while Arya can’t disagree with the Dragon Queen’s line of reasoning, it doesn’t make her any more accepting of her lot. She should be with Jon and letting Needle mend gaps in the line.

Eventually, Brienne’s body betrays her and keeps her from sparring completely and she contents herself by watching Arya and Jaime learn to dance. She finds it oddly comforting as she feels her child test its own steps against her belly.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

At first, Jon and Daenerys both make it back to Winterfell to rest somewhat regularly, every other week or so. As the battle rages, their retreats become irregular and uncoordinated. It happens that Jon is there when Brienne’s water breaks and she goes into labor.

Despite the pain and awkwardness and messiness of the realities of birth—and somehow for all her Septa warned her about the possible pain and awkwardness of sex, she never touched on the greater physical indignities and mess of birth—she is glad to have Jon here with her and Jaime and Sansa. (She is only half aware of Arya hiding in the shadows amidst the pain, but she is also the only one who senses her at all and is grateful for the distraction of trying to keep track of her hiding places.) 

Many hours (and gallons of fluids and other bodily things that Brienne does not like to begin to think about) later, the maester pulls the child free, laughing, and sets her in her arms as he busies himself with safely cutting and tying the cord, then with the septas pulling the birthing mats, cleaning her, and setting the bed to rights. 

“A girl, my lady! A big, strong girl like her mother!”

And indeed, as Brienne looks into her child’s blue eyes, exhausted and as sore as she is. Jaime laughs, delighted and instantly smitten, gently stroking his daughter’s straw-like hair, his shortened arm around Brienne. 

On her other side, Jon leans in a little, eyes nearly as wide as this tiny person whom despite being brand new, he thinks shows what Brienne will look like should she reach old age. Brienne senses him hovering, unsure, and inclines her head at him to join her and Jaime. He tentatively scoots in and reaches one arm around her back and when it touches Jaime’s, Jaime tears his eyes from the child to smile a moment at Jon and adjusts his arm up so that Jon can wind his below. Tears well up unbidden as he reaches his other hand to trace the child’s nose and chin.

“She’s perfect.”

Jaime nods. He hasn’t stopped smiling. “She’s just like her mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never quite forgot this story, and I'm grateful to those of you out there who haven't either.
> 
> I can't pretend that this will update regularly—I still don't know how it ends; I have all kinds of ideas and am realizing it will just have to come out in the writing itself. But since I managed to write for the first time in _months_ recently, I'm not giving up and will continue to chip away at the story. Hoping this little snippet will act as a jump-start.


	10. Baby Steps

Brienne dubs the child Elanor. She says she wants her to be free to walk her own path as much as possible, that she will have enough weight on her shoulders given her (dubious) parentage (and frame) and the world she will inherit without someone else’s legacy on her back adding to it.

All too soon, Jon must take his leave to get back to the fight. It is the hardest thing he’s ever done, even after killing Qhorin, even after leaving Ygritte murdered by his sworn brothers. He kisses his daughter goodbye, hand lingering lightly on her brow, thumb stroking her soft temple. Like her mother, Elanor is quiet and all big, expressive eyes as she reaches out her tiny but improbably strong hand to him. He marvels at her strength as she pulls on his finger, and he cannot help but smile fondly at Brienne, then Jaime at her shoulder. He hopes Elanor will continue to reach out and grasp and take what is hers. 

If the child’s eyes don’t change, they may never know who sired her and he is glad that he and Jaime had agreed to both claim and protect mother and child. He knows he is likely to die in this war, and is grateful for this taste of fatherhood. He loves Daeneyrs, but this…it is different. It calms something in him, this great love he feels for Elanor. Now knowing what happened Rhaegar and Lyanna, he is finally sure that he was loved by them. How could parents who created a child with love not care for their child? (He is not sure what he and Brienne have; he does not know a word that might encompass the feeling that grips him when he sees her. It goes beyond respect or fondness because it is built on an intimacy founded on a mixture of battle, survival, and sex, but it is also not the passion he knew with Ygritte or has found with Daenerys. This feeling is as unique as she is.) While life has taken much from him, he has yet again been given something back, a different Brienne-and-Elanor-shaped piece with which to un expectedly patch a part of the hole in his heart. …And oddly, perhaps Jaime too is patching a gap, some strangely twisted hole left by Rhaegar and Ned Stark’s best intentions. He reflects that only Jaime…and Tyrion (and possibly Varys, an odd thought that bubbles up from who knows where) would appreciate the dark humor of this.

Brienne will miss Jon. In the seemingly endless amount of time it takes to nurse and clean and soothe Elanor, she has much time to think deeply on many things in the half-daze her life has become. For all the awkwardness of the situation, he has been nothing but kind and gallant. He is a good king who truly cares about the well-being of all his people, from the lowest whore from Moletown to the high lords. With her acceptance of Jaime’s love finally helping her see herself and her past romantic…misadventures…more clearly, she realizes that Jaime and Jon represent different aspects of the king that Renly pretended—or perhaps more generously, aspired—to be. It puts her in an odd moment of understanding and sympathy for what Renly must have seen in the partnership of Loras and Margaery (and that she is not the Margaery in this scenario does not escape her, and it gives her a moment of pause only to laugh softly at herself). She wonders at how she got from Tarth to Renly’s Kingsguard to where she is now, holding her sweet babe, two wonderful (and powerful…and pretty, she has to admit), kind men each simultaneously and proudly claiming her child as their legitimate heir. 

A part of her her is petty and triumphant enough that she wishes her old septa was here to see it, but another is sensible enough to be content with Jaime’s love, her child, and Jon’s deep regard.

Jaime will miss Jon, currently softly snoring in a chair by the fire in their private quarters battling yet again with Brienne, this time for dominance in the battle for how much noise one can make while sleeping. His king is a good man, one of the few people he implicitly trusts these days, which is no small thing considering who all he is entrusting to his rule. More than ever, he feels he is capable of king- or queenslaying should his wife or daughter be threatened. Certainly he is the best king Jaime’s known: he’s the first he hasn’t wanted to kill. 

Well, the first he didn’t sire. 

Well, the first _sane_ one he didn’t sire.

He suspects it’s part of the reason he loves this second daughter so deeply. He has loved each of his children, even Joff who managed to take the worst aspects of him and Cersei, magnify them, and shout them to the world, daring it to see how awful each of them truly are. But he remembers when even Joff was a sweet mewling thing in his arms, the one time Cers had allowed him to hold his son. He prays to each of The Seven that little El will be spared her eldest brother’s madness and her elder siblings’ fate. He kisses her brow, rocking her, holding her close, whispering first the tales of derring do of him and Brienne, then, in even more hushed tones, confessions of what his family has wrought in Westeros. 

Even if she will never remember it, at least he knows his daughter has heard the unvarnished truth from him at least this once. (If pressed, he’ll say he rather expects to die soon, but is counting on Brienne, and to a lesser extent, Tryion and Brandon Stark to provide a bit more context should they all manage to survive.)

So here, this quiet night, the family close and sleeping while he keeps watch, Jaime gently kisses his daughter’s temple, runs a light finger down Brienne’s face, causing her to turn towards him in her slumber which means he can’t restrain laying a soft, slow kiss to her temple and then her lips. Then after regarding Jon slumped snoring in a chair by the bed, tucks an errant black curl behind the boy’s ear and lays a blanket over him. 

Plus, he knows that when Jon leaves, Daenerys will arrive. It’s a sobering thought.

They’ve all been able to rest, but like the war, this detente won’t last. While Jon, Brienne, and Elanor doze, Jaime sits on the edge of the bed sharpening Oathkeeper and thinks, the soft scrape of the whetstone against the blade its own kind of lullaby. 

It’s time to try to talk with Tyrion. In earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another short chapter; I still have no idea where this is going. I still cannot promise any sort of schedule. So knowing those two major caveats, I do appreciate anyone still following this odd beast. Even though I know not what to do with it, I grow fond of it, stroking its feathery scaled coat at the fire, wondering what it will do or show me next.

**Author's Note:**

> Why did I even write this? I credit (if you liked it, blame me if you don't) this ow [coraleeveritas's Found in the Forbidden Nights](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11950977) as it took a threesome I would never have been able to think my way into and carry it off with aplomb, while providing some really interesting character insights.
> 
> This is a far easier pairing than what coralee tackled, but it was fun to think about!
> 
> I've dithered on whether to start posting this for a week or so, so if you want more, please let me know. I've got an embarrassing 15k words at this point.


End file.
